The   Shadow 


of 


John    Wallace 


A    Novel 


BY   L.    CLARKSON 


New    York 

White,  Stokes,   &  Allen 
1884 


COPYRIGHT,  1884, 
BY  L.  C.  WHITELOCK. 


DEDICATED   TO 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

WHOSE    MATCHLESS    MASTER-PIECE, 

THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK, 

GAVE    ME    COURAGE   TO    UNDERTAKE 

THE   READING   OF   THIS    LESSER    RIDDLE. 


THE  KEYNOTE. 


-"  /  raise  a  ghost- 


Because man  makes  not  man  ; 

Yet  by  a  special  gift,  an  art  of  arts, 
More  insight  and  more  outsight  and  much  more 
Will  to  use  both  of  these  than  boast  my  mates, 
I  can  detach  from  me,  commission  forth 
Half  of  my  soul ;  which  in  its  pilgrimage 
O'er  old  unwandered  wasteways  of  the  world, 
May  chance  upon  some  fragment  of  a  whole, 
Rag  of  flesh,  scrap  of  bone  in  dim  disuse, 
Smoking  flax  that  fed  fire  once  ;  prompt  therein 
I  enter,  spark-like,  put  old  powers  to  play, 
Push  lines  out  to  the  limit,  lead  forth  the  last 
(By  a  moonrise  through  a  ruin  of  a  crypf) 
What  shall  be  mistily  seen,  murmuringly  heard, 
Mistakenly  felt." 

From  Robert  Browning's 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 


PRELUDE. 

Comprising  a  letter  from  "  Artist-haven  "  written  to  a  well- 
known  journal  early  in  the  summer  of  1879,  describing  an 
obscure  hamlet  by  the  sea. Signed  Leslie  Bracebridge. 

A  wail  from  Mount-Desert,  crying  that  it  is  no 
longer  a  wilderness,  has  doubtless  found  its  echo  in 
many  another  remote  region  where  one  goes  to  be  a 
recluse,  and  finds  the  primeval  soltitudes  already  over 
crowded  with  the  world's  people.  But  there  re 
mains  at  least  one  happy  hunting-ground  which  the 
Philistines  of  fashion  have  not  yet  overwhelmed. 

Somewhere  on  the  eastern  end  of  Long  Island,  is 
a  little  settlement  to  which  I  shall  presently  give  a 
name.  It  was  supposed  to  have  been  discovered  in 
the  summer  of  1878  by  The  New  York  Tile  Club,  and 
is  consequently  but  one  year  old  to  the  knowledge 
of  the  artistic  world.  That  it  was  two  hundred  years 
old  before  The  New  York  Tile  Club  began  to  be,  has 
added  somewhat  to  the  artistic  world's  interest  in  its 
existence. 

It  is  a  quaint  and  lovely  town  of  one  long  street ; 
a  grassy  avenue  so  broad,  that  over  its  green  ex 
panse  meandered  two  or  three  unpremeditated  road 
ways,  worn  at  different  periods  to  suit — so  at  least  it 
seems  to  the  eye  of  the  peregrinating  stranger — the 


6  PRELUDE. 

varying  convenience  of  the  inhabitants.  On  either 
side  is  a  walk  bordered  by  huge  elms  and  sycamores 
and  horse-chestnuts  ;  and  these  same  great  trees 
shelter  the  picturesque  little  houses  that  stand,  in  their 
uncalculating  simplicity,  close  upon  the  road.  They 
are  two  centuries  and  more  old,  some  of  these  shingle 
cottages,  whose  roofs  take  so  steep  a  slant,  and  whose 
color  is  so  delicious  a  gray,  that  it  is  no  wonder  the 
artists  have  settled  down  upon  the  place  and  claimed 
it  for  their  own.  So,  for  the  present,  I  shall  call  this 
little  hamlet  "Artist-haven." 

The  flat  country  is  full  of  a  subtle  interest.  On 
one  hand  are  the  farms  and  grass-lands  by  which  the 
simple  folk  live :  upon  the  other,  shut  out  by  flats 
and  low  hills  of  sand,  forever  rolls  the  sea. 

There  is  a  mellow  haziness  in  the  atmosphere,  a 
harmony  in  form  and  color,  a  wonderful  prevailing 
"  tone,"  which  makes  the  pensive  painter  fancy  him 
self  once  more  among  the  sea-walls  and  dunes  of 
Holland  ;  while  the  happy  colorist,  who  wanders  in 
land  among  the  ancient  farmlands  and  comes  back 
with  sketches  of  gray  wall  flecked  with  the  soft  light 
and  shade  that  filter  greenly  through  willow  trees,  de 
clares  the  landscape  to  be  a  piece  taken  out  of  the 
heart  of  Brittany. 

The  Holland  man  has  the  best  of  it,  when  at 
twilight  he  stands  gazing  upon  one  of  the  antiquated 
windmills  that  still  lift  their  uneasy  arms  in  grim 
silhouette  against  the  melancholy  sky.  But  he  of  the 
French  school  has  his  themes  thrust  upon  him,  when 
into  the  simplicity  of  the  uncrowded  landscape  comes 


PRELUDE.  7 

a  leisurely  group  of  dun-colored  cows  ;  or  when  a 
clumsy  hay-wagon,  piled  high  with  its  luscious,  ochre- 
tinted  load,  crosses  his  point  of  view.  Then  they  two 
shake  hands  and  gasp,  each  from  his  different  outlook  : 
"  What  exquisite  harmonies  !  "  "  What  marvellous 
grays ! >: 

A  party  of  artists  have  taken  up  their  abode  in  the 
old  academy, — (the  first  place  of  learning  in  New 
York  State,  it  claims  to  be,)  where  they  hold  innocent 
revels.  There  is  a  saying,  somewhere,  that  "  Provi 
dence  provides  for  poets  and  painters,  as  He  provides 
for  the  birds  of  the  air."  That  may  be  true  ;  but  the 
poets  and  painters  have,  therefore,  to  be  satisfied  with 
very  much  such  food  and  lodging  as  is  vouchsafed  to 
the  birds.  It  may  be  true  that,  after  all,  it  is  but 
a  small  penalty  to  pay  for  the  luxury  of  taking  no 
thought  for  the  morrow  ! 

The  artists  and  their  harmonies,  however,  are  not 
all  of  this  blessed  Arcadia.  One  sees,  now  and  then, 
faces  that  belong  neither  to  the  natives  nor  the  ar 
tists.  They  appear  upon  the  beach,  then  vanish  back 
into  the  village  and  are  lost  in  its  hotel-less  shelter. 

Did  it  never  strike  you,  dear  reader,  that  sometimes 
even  the  very  best  people  may  tire  of  going  to  a 
few  prescribed  places,  and  may  rejoice  to  hide  them 
selves  from  their  oppressively  inquiring  friends,  who 
seek  their  names  in  that  book  of  life — the  Hotel 
Register  ?  (We  might  digress  here  to  demand  who 
"  the  very  best  people  ''  are  ?  whether  they  must  be 
superlatively  good,  or  great  ?  wise  or  wealthy  ?  But 
as  Thackeray  himself  has  stumbled  upon  that  very 
inquiry,  and  failed  to  solve  the  problem  to  his  satis- 


g  PRELUDE. 

faction,  we  may  leave  the  qualification  to  stand  at  the 
indisputable  "  best.")  If  you  were  down  here  in  this 
quaint  town  by  the  sea,  you  might  meet  a  handful  of 
such,  who  have  left  their  formalities  and  convention 
alities  behind  them,  and  stolen  hither  in  the  footsteps 
of  the  artists,  to  bask  upon  that  serene  plane  forbidden 
to  American  society — a  natural  life. 

If,  in  the  course  of  time,  all  the  world  and  his  wife 
should  come  down  upon  the  peace  of  the  place,  to  the 
artists  be  the  blame.  But  as  yet,  they  have  not  all 
come  :  and  so  precaution  steps  in  and  warns  me  to 
throw  a  friendly  veil  over  the  mystic  name  of  this 
charming  village  whose  atmosphere  is  still  untainted 
by  those  belligerents  of  style,  who  wrestle  each  year 
with  the  discomfort  of  summer  resorts 

If  we  look  back  half  a  hundred  years  or  more,  even 
then  the  little  island  settlement  wears  an  untroubled 
and  time-forgotten  aspect.  From  end  to  end  its  long 
avenue  is  as  tranquil  as  though  no  echoes  of  the  nine 
teenth  century  turmoil  had  yet  reached  its  fair  green 
highway.  The  old  Town  Pond  still  lies  far  up  in  the  bed 
of  "  the  street "  and  the  geese  and  ducks  are  paddling 
about  in  happy  unconcern  of  the  passer-by.  For 
now  and  then  the  foot  of  a  stranger  is  led  hither 
by  some  freak  of  fancy.  But,  as  yet,  Artist-haven 
has  no  existence  on  the  map  of  the  fashionable  world. 
Or  if  it  has  appeared,  a  tiny  speck  upon  very  domestic 
copies  of  the  social  chart,  the  finger  of  the  ordinary 
place-hunter  passes  it  over  unnoticed. 

Entering  the  village  from  the  south,  two  busy  wind 
mills  fling  their  arms  about  as  if  to  say,  "  Here,  at 
least,  steam  is  despised."  Beside  the  restless  shad- 


PRELUDE.  9 

ows  of  these  veteran  mills,  lies  the  venerable  south- 
end  cemetery,  where  the  villagers  have  laid  their 
dead  for  many  generations  beneath  quaint  inscrip 
tions  and  rude  sculpture. 

Then  comes  a  mile  or  more  of  rural  street,  with  its 
straggling  farmhouses,  some  fashioned  with  a  digni 
fied,  aristocratic  air  ;  but  for  the  most  part  framed  in 
shingle,  with  Puritan  severity.  Their  doors  open 
confidingly  upon  the  deeply  shaded  sidewalk  ;  while 
their  long  acres  stretch  away  behind  them  to  meet 
the  flat,  untenanted,  but  readily  arable  sands  of  the 
interior. 

At  the  north  end  of  the  hamlet  stands  another 
time-mellowed  windmill,  with  a  still  more  ancient 
burying-ground  beneath  its  long  gray  shadows.  These 
little  cities  of  the  dead  are  situated  in  the  broad  bed 
of  the  public  road,  where  "  two  ways  meet,"  after  a 
time-honored  custom  ;  and  the  wagon-tracks  clear  the 
low  fences  to  right  and  to  left.  The  sojourners,  pass 
ing  over  the  decaying  steps  of  either  stile  to  examine 
the  blunt-edged  dates  carved  upon  those  leaning  and 
moss-covered  slabs,  may  well  linger  over  the  sugges 
tions  called  up  by  those  dim  figures.  They  are 
well-nigh  obliterated  by  a  crust  of  gentle  lichens 
which  one  may  brush  carefully  away  and,  after  some 
puzzling  manage  to  read  the  time-worn  dates  of 
nearly  two  hundred  years. 

Hanging  upon  these  records  are  many  quaint  stories 
which  portray  the  stern  virtues  of  dead-and-gone  Puri 
tan  settlers.  For,  be  it  known,  Artist-haven  is  not 
without  its  bit  of  historical  pride,  and  can  even  show 
some  few  points  of  revolutionary  interest,  besides  gos- 


I0  PRELUDE. 

sip  told  of  the  traditional  forefathers.  There  is  a 
tiny,  semi-dilapidated  structure  midway  of  the  single 
street  which  was  the  village  Inn  more  than  a  hun 
dred  years  ago,  beneath  whose  long  slanting  eaves 
Lord  Percy,  and  young  Lord  Erskine,  and  hapless 
Major  Andre  congregated  sometimes,  with  a  hand 
ful  of  companions,  when  the  close  of  the  war  had 
left  a  few  British  ships  in  the  harbor  near  Gardiner's 
Island.  It  is  gray,  and  weatherbeaten,  and  vine-covered 
to-day,  and  occupied  by  the  gentlest  of  gentle-folks — 
a  sister  and  brother  whose  heads  have  slowly  whitened 
among  their  garden-flowers,  in  lovely  innocence  of 
the  new  world  beyond  their  sheltered  village. 

There  are  other  memorable  buildings  in  the  village, 
but,  somehow,  in  Artist-haven,  the  fancy  always 
wanders  back  to  the  occupants  of  the  old  graveyards. 
Moreover, — if  there  should  ever  be  a  story  written  of 
Artist-haven, — and  if  it  should  chance  to  terminate 
in  the  South  End  Cemetery — what  odds  ?  It  would 
not  be  the  first  history  which  has  reached  a  terminus 
in  the  grave. 

The  environment  is  blown  over  just  now  by  the 
winds  of  a  damp  and  characteristically  chilly  evening. 
A  lively  sound  startles  the  air,  just  as  it  did  upon 
equally  chilly  and  misty  evenings  in  the  past.  Swing 
ing  around  the  corner  of  the  old  graveyard  comes  the 
great  rattling  stage.  As  if  in  defiance  of  the  peace 
ful  sleepers,  the  solemn  references  to  the  last  trump 
upon  yon  leaning  headstones,  the  driver  raises  to  his 
lips,  an  ancient  bugle  upon  which  he  blows  thrilling 
blasts.  The  shabby  coach  topples  from  side  to  side, 
and  its  clumsy  wheels  groan  beneath  the  weight  of 


PRELUDE.  U 

the  huge  body.  What  a  clatter  it  all  makes,  and  how 
the  peaceful  echoes  start  up  affrighted,  and  die  away 
trembling !  The  man  on  the  box  blows  another 
trumpet  blast,  cracks  his  long  whip,  and  the  machine 
goes  rumbling  up  the  street.  No  wonder  the  fancy 
is  carried  back  half  a  hundred  years  !  " 

N.  B.  It  may  be  inferred  from  several  vague  allusions  made 
in  the  foregoing  letter,  that  Mr.  Leslie  Bracebridge  had  nursed 
some  chimerical  notion  of  writing  a  story  of  Rest-Hampton, 
over  which  he  threw  the  friendly  veil  of  "  Artist-haven."  If 
so,  we  crave  pardon  for  taking  the  pen  from  his  hand  to  trace 
for  him  the  history  and  mystery  of  the  little  village. 

The  Aitthor. 


BOOK  I. 


THE  MAN. 

"  A  story  I  could  body  forth  so  well 
By  making  speak,  myself  kept  out  of  view, 
The  very  man  as  he  was  wont  to  do, 
And  leaving  you  to  say  the  rest  for  him. 
Since  tJwugh  I  might  be  proud  to  see  the  dim 
Abysmal  Past  divide  its  hateful  surge 
Letting  of  all  men  this  one  man  emerge 
Because  it  pleased  me  !  Yet,  that  moment  past, 
I  should  delight  in  watching  first  to  last 
His  progress  as  you  watch  it,  not  a  whit 
More  in  the  secret  than  yourselves  who  sit 
Fresh  chapletcd  to  listen. " 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  ARRIVAL. 

"  A  pretty  piece  of  narrative  enough, 
Which  scarce  ought  so  to  drop  out,  one  would  think, 
From  the  more  curious  annals  of  our  kind? 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

IT  was  on  such  a  raw  and  misty  evening,  in  April  1 840 
when  the  sea-fog  was  rolling  hard  upon  the  little  island 
town  that  lay  on  the  hither  side  of  its  primitive  peace, 
untroubled  by  the  few  strangers  who  came  and  went, 
that  there  arrived  in  Rest-Hampton — a  gentleman. 
Had  there  been  any  doubt  about  his  claim  to  that  title, 
the  reflected  respectability  cast  upon  him  by  a  most 
gentlemanly  valet,  would  have  decided  the  question  in 
his  favor.  But  there  could  be  no  doubt.  Tall,  sparely 
though  vigorously  made,  with  clear  cut  features  and 
a  noble  poise  of  head,  the  stranger's  appearance  was 
the  embodiment  of  the  gentleman. 

He  stepped  with  a  certain  dignified  alacrity  from 
the  belated  stage  which  had  brought  him  at  so  late 
an  hour  from  Sag  Harbor,  at  the  door  of  the  only 
"  Hotel "  the  place  boasted — a  small,  pitched-roof 
affair  scarcely  big  enough  to  be  called  an  Inn,  but 
dignified  by  the  larger  name  in  the  minds  of  the  by 
no  means  humble  villagers. 

And  how,  indeed,  were  they  to  compare  their 
"  Hotel "  with  those  enormous  piles  of  architecture 


X6  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

elsewhere  which  no  man  in  Rest-Hampton  had  ever 
beheld  ? 

As  the  stranger  stepped  from  the  rickety  travelling 
engine,  the  manner  of  the  valet  betokened  great 
solicitude,  as  for  a  personage  of  high  degree,  or  for 
an  invalid.  It  could  not  be  the  latter:  for  when  John 
Wallace  crossed  the  shaded  sidewalk  and  passed  under 
the  low-roofed  "  stoop,"  it  was  with  the  firm  and 
elastic  step  of  perfect  health.  The  care  of  the  man 
was  then  bestowed  upon  the  luggage,  while  the  master 
stood,  unwelcomed,  on  the  threshold. 

"  I  wonder  where  to  gracious  Ham  Daggett's  up 
tor  He's  always  gadding  when  he's  wanted.  But 
'tisn't  often  that  smart  wife  o'  hisen's  missin'  when 
there's  anything  likely  to  be  goin'  on.  Look  there, 
Betsey !  he's  got  a  arrival,"  this  and  more  from  the 
neighbor  opposite. 

Mr  Wallace  glanced  about  him. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  he  asked,  in  a  clear,  well  modu 
lated  voice,  "  where  I  may  find  Mr.  Joshua  Castle- 
wood  ? " 

The  person  addressed  was  a  rough-looking  man 
with  smudges  of  his  trade-suggesting  black  upon  face 
and  hands,  who  had  lounged  up  to  take  part  in  the 
arrival  of  the  stage.  It  was  the  one  event  that  broke 
the  monotony  of  the  days  at  Rest-Hampton  for  the 
village  folks ;  but  the  old-world  repose  was  still  upon 
them,  and  the  innkeeper  had  not  yet  stirred  forth  to 
look  for  anything  so  improbable  as  a  guest.  No 
doubt  his  forefathers  had  taken  the  attacks  of  the 
Indians,  and  later  the  visitation  of  the  British  troops 
with  much  the  same  solidity. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  17 

"  Well,  I  reckon  I  kin,"  replies  Ben  Adams,  after 
eyeing  the  new  comer  for  a  few  seconds, — 

"  Be  you  come  up  to  see  him  ?  "  he  adds,  taking  a 
pipe  from  his  mouth  to  ask  the  question  and  then 
returning  it.  His  glance  had  fallen  upon  a  letter  in 
the  gentleman's  hand  and  then  wandered  off  to  the 
valet  busy  with  trunks  and  portmanteaux. 

"  Yes,  I  should  be  obliged  if  you  would  direct  me 
to  his  house." 

The  tone  had  the  same  even  and  beautiful  modula 
tion  which  would  have  struck  pleasantly  upon  a  more 
sensitive  ear  than  Ben  Adams'. 

"  It's  queer,  now,  he  didn't  send  over  for  you  to 
the  Harbor,"  Ben  grunts,  shifting  his  weight  from 
one  foot  to  the  other. 

There  is  no  reply  ;  the  stranger  half  turns  as  if  to 
quit  the  doorway  ;  the  valet  looks  up  from  his  occupa 
tion  over  the  luggage.  Seeing  his  master  pausing  as  if 
in  uncertainty,  he  comes  hastily  forward.  But  Mr. 
Adams  gets  in  one  more  question,  with  his  pipe  in 
his  teeth, — 

"  Be  you  a  kin  of  hisen  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Castlewood  is  not  a  relative."  replied  the 
stranger,  with  a  slight  shade  of  coldness  in  his  voice, 
which  might,  but  for  his  unfailing  politeness,  have 
been  silent.  He  took  a  step  forward  and  joined  the 
man  who  carried  his  valises. 

"  I  say,  do  you  know  where  Mr.  Castlewood  lives 
about  here  ? "  demands  that  person  abruptly  of  the 
stage-driver. 

The  man  grinned, — 

"  I  reckon  you   be  a  stranger   hereabout,   mister, 


T8  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE, 

or  you'd  know  the  way  up  to  Squire  Castlewood's." 
The  remark  is  flung  at  the  older  gentleman,  who 
answers  quietly,  although  the  coldness  is  distinctly 
audible  in  his  exquisite  voice  this  time, — 

"  Yes,  I  have   not  been  in  Rest-Hampton  before." 

The  valet  drops  his  valises  with  a  scowl  at  the  two 
lubbers.  Then  he  turns  to  his  master  : 

"  If  you  will  come  this  way,  sir,  I  think  we  must 
find  some  one  to  show  us.  These  people  seem  to  be 
either  vastly  ignorant  or  horridly  impertinent." 

John  Wallace  turned  his  aristocratic  face  towards 
Ben  Adams.  He  evidently  felt  no  personal  offense, 
but  took  the  mode  of  his  replies  as  the  way  of  a  block 
head. 

"  If  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  explain  what  direc 
tion  we  take,  I  will  not  trouble  you  any  further." 

It  was  spoken  in  a  decided  way  that  had  the  air  of  a 
command,  while  uttered  in  the  tone  of  a  request, 
Moreover  he  crossed  Ben's  smutty  palm  with  a 
bright  silver  piece.  Then  he  turned  simply  and  left 
the  vine-shadowed  doorway.  Evidently,  he  was  ac 
customed  to  walking  before. 

"  O  no  trouble  to  me,  stranger,  I  ain't  got  nothing 
to  do — I'll  jest  go  along  with — with  your  friend 
here." 

In  spite  of  Ben  Adams'  unconsciousness  of  class 
distinctions,  something  in  the  new  comer's  manner 
distanced  the  rude  countryman  and  caused  him  to 
change  the  latter  part  of  his  sentence  and  his  inten 
tion  at  the  same  time. 

Mr.  Wallace  bowed  with  a  gentle  "  I  thank  you," 
and  walking  towards  the  direction  indicated  by  Adams, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  Ig 

that  person  fell  behind  with  the  valet.  His  curiosity, 
which  possibly  had  but  little  to  do  with  the  personal 
appearance  of  its  object,  and  would  have  been  equally 
bestowed  upon  any  new  arrival,  did  not  long  remain 
quiescent. 

"  Who  be  your  chum,  yonder  ? " 

Now  it  happened  that  the  circumspect  Andrews  was 
furious  at  the  incivility  which  had  been  shown  Mr. 
Wallace,  and  his  faultless  balance  nearly  deserted 
him  at  this  new  indignity.  However,  he  smothered 
his  wrath  and  replied  shortly, — 

"That  is  my  master." 

"  Be  you  his  servant  ?  "  cries  honest  Ben,  aghast : 
"  Lord  !  I  thought  you  was  a  pair  o'  town  chaps." 

If  Andrews  felt  a  sense  of  exultation,  he  repressed 
it  in  his  own  bosom.  He  walked  on  in  silence,  keep 
ing  his  careful  eye  upon  the  figure  in  front.  It  was 
the  figure  of  a  student,  with  bent  head  and  hands — 
such  smooth  white  hands ! — folded  behind,  betokening 
a  habit  of  revery. 

"  A  preacher  ?  " 

Ben  Adams  was  growing  laconic  under  the  pres 
sure  of  Andrews'  silent  wrath. 

"  No,"  responded  that  individual,  adding  under  his 
breath.  "  I'm  dashed  if  it's  any  of  your  business." 

"  Well,  in  the  Lord's  name,  who  be  he  ?  " 

"  A  gentleman." 

Ben  stared. 

"  Well  neow — really — so's  every  one,  I  reckon  ; " 
and  he  tried  to  laugh  at  the  very  poor  joke. 

(Silence.)     Andrews  thought  otherwise. 

"  Lookeehere,mister  !"  cried  the  blacksmith  angrily, 


20  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  You   know   how   to     answer    a    civil    question,    I 
s'pose.'' 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know,  then  ?  "  demanded 
the  injured  valet,  wisely  concluding  not  to  quarrel 
with  his  brawny  inquisitor. 

"  What's  the  name  o'  yon  chap," 

Andrews  winced  : 

"  Mr.  Wallace." 

"  Got  no  first  name,  eh  ?  " 

"  John  Wallace." 

"  Umph !  From  New  York,  mebbe  ?  " 

"  London." 

"  Lord  ! "  ejaculated  Ben  Adams  again  :  "  I  never 
see  a  Englishman  afore,  leastways  except  a  old  sea- 
clog  now  and  then  lyin'  at  Sag  Harbor.  Be  you  a 
Englishman,  too  ?  " 

Andrews  may  have  heard  the  foreign  imputation 
that  Yankees  are  the  most  inveterate  questioners  upon 
God's  earth ;  but  his  habit  being  to  reserve  his 
thoughts,  he  merely  responded, — 

"  Yes,"  adding,  "  which  way  do  we  take  ?  " 

For  the  watchful  eye  had  followed  its  master  to 
what  appeared  to  be  a  branch  road,  but  was  in  reality 
only  one  of  several  straggling  wagon-tracks  travers 
ing  the  grassy  street. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  bother,"  replied  Mr.  Adams  :  "  no 
one  can't  get  out  o'  this  here  street  yet  a  while,  we've 
only  got  two  cross-roads  and  they're  at  each  end  o'  the 
town. — I  say  !  "  elevating  his  voice  to  a  shout — "  Mis 
ter  Wallis  !  " 

The  gentleman  addressed  did  not  lift  his  head,  but 
kept  on  at  the  same  even  pace. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN"  WALLACE.  2l 

It  was  Andrews'  turn  to  stare,  which  he  did,  seiz 
ing  mechanically  the  other's  arm  as  if  in  trepidation. 
"  Be  your  man  deaf  ? "  queries  Adams,  nothing 
abashed. 

"  No — no.     For  God's  sake  stop." 

But  Ben  was  not  easily  overawed, — 

"  Hollo,  there  !  Mister  Wallis  !  "  he  shouted,  still 
louder  ;  and  this  time  John  Wallace  paused,  raised 
his  head,  and  slowly  turned  a  somewhat  puzzled  and 
exceedingly  puzzling  face  upon  the  two  men. 

"  Hold  your  dash'd  tongue,  can't  you,"  mutters 
Andrews,  beginning  to  hasten  forward  :  "  What  sort 
of  a  way  is  that  to  speak  to  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  pestered  about  your  furrin  ways  o' 
speakin',''  growled  Ben  ;  "  one  gen'lman's  as  good  as 
another  here,"  and  he  let  his  companion  go  on  a  few 
paces. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Andrews,  deeply 
humiliated,  and  catching  up  with  the  hesitating  figure  : 
"  That  low-bred  fellow  would  have  your  name  from 

me,  and  now  he  shouts  it  after  you  in  the  street. 

The  valet's  mortification  was  supreme. 

"  My  name  ?  oh,  yes,"  with  a  faint  srnile,  "  It's  all 
one,  Andrews.  The  town  will  soon  have  it  by  heart." 

"  But  the  blockhead  was  ill-mannered  about  you  and 
asked  nasty  questions — and  that !"  Andrews  was  too 
incensed  to  hold  his  peace. 

"  Never  mind,  Andrews,"  said  the  gentle  voice. 
"  We  must  not  quarrel  with  our  new  friends ;  we  are 
to  live  among  them,  you  know." 

Andrews  groaned. 

"  Do  you  think  they  are  all  like  that,  sir?" 


22  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  Please  God — no,"  murmured  the  elder  man,  a 
blank,  set  look  crossing  his  white  face.  Then  he 
brightened  up  with  a  visible  effort,  as  though  he  were 
struggling  to  come  from  under  some  cloud :  the  valet 
watched  him  keenly  with  an  expression  that  was  al 
most  anguish. 

"  This  is  a  quiet  place,  think  you,  Andrews  ?  " 

The  man  started  as  if  from  a  dream. 

"  A  most  quiet  place  my  L—       -  Mr.  Wallace." 

John  Wallace  let  his  searching  gaze,  that  had 
wandered  off  into  space,  fall  for  an  instant  upon  the 
valet's  flushing  face. 

"  Be  careful,  Andrews,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  shall  be  careful,  sir.  That  clown 
flustered  me.  It  won't  happen  again,  I  assure  you, 
sir.  It  is  the  third  place  to  the  right Mr.  Wallace." 

There  was  a  singular  pause  that  preceded  the 
name.  Perhaps  it  was  homage  ;  perhaps  it  was  the 
unspoken  gratitude  of  a  trusted  servant  who  is  treated 
by  a  much  revered  master  as  his  confidant.  Perhaps 
it  was  sympathy  with  some  mute  thought  that  lay  in 
the  gentle  scholar's  eyes.  Whatever  it  was,  the  two 
men  recognized  its  significance  :  and  after  exchanging 
another  look — a  grave  puzzle  still  in  one  face,  a  deep 
and  peculiarly  apologetic  deference  in  the  other — Mr. 
Wallace  resumed  his  former  attitude  and  gait,  while 
Andrews  again  fell  behind  with  Ben  Adams. 

That  person  who  was  good-natured  enough  when 
not  over  full  of  liquor,  as  was  too  often  the  case,  hav 
ing  ceased  to  nurse  his  wrath,  began  again  : 

"  Be  you  come  to  bide  with  old  Joshuay  Castle- 
wood  ? " 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  23 

Andrews  was  too  oppressed  to  be  angry. 

"  Perhaps." 

"  I'd  a  thought  he'd  druv  over  in  his  waggin  an' 
saved  your  mister  a  joltin'  by  the  stage.  He  do'ent 
look  over  strong." 

No  reply.  Andrews  had  still  in  his  face,  a  common 
place  visage  otherwise,  which  we  need  not  describe, 
the  same  look  he  had  raised  to  meet  the  perplexity  of 
John  Wallace.  A  mother  might  look  so  upon  a  child 
whom  she  cannot  save  from  sorrow.  She,  too,  can 
only  sorrow.  It  was  as  though  he  and  that  other 
were  treading  together  a  new  path  of  life ;  the  sur 
prise  and  doubt  was  upon  them  both,  but  most  upon 
that  other,  since  Andrews  himself  had,  by  his  calling, 
only  to  follow  in  moods  not  his  own. 

Ben  Adams  could  not  be  expected  to  penetrate  into 
this  maze.  He  cast  lowering  looks  at  his  silent  com 
panion,  who  presently  roused  himself  and  began  to 
speak,  hoping  thereby  to  forestall  any  probably  pend 
ing  question. 

"  This  is  a  quiet  sort  of  town,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Depends  on  what  you  mean  by  quiet,"  grunts 
Ben,  ready  to  defend  his  native  place  from  a  possible 
slur. 

"  Oh,  I  mean  no  offense.  A  pleasant  kind  of  quiet, 
you  know." 

"  Well,  as  to  that,"  said  literal  Ben,  "  folks  may  dif 
fer.  Now  I  should  like  the  place  a  sight  quieter. 
We've  heaps  o'  comin'  an'  goin'  here  'bout  harvest 
times,  with  the  new  reapin'  hands,  and  the  buyers,  and 
the  heavy  teams  that  hauls  the  stuff  to  Sag  Harbor 
fur  shippin'." 


24  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  Fine  farm  lands  ? "     Andrews  tried  to  fill  a  gap. 

"  Well  rather.  You  take  a  look  at  our  hay  and 
you  won't  see  purtier  anywheres  on  the  Island.  Be 
your  mister  a  lookin'  fur  a  farm  ?  " 

"  No — no,"  cried  Andrews,  inwardly  cursing  the 
man's  pertinacity  of  interrogation.  "  Is  not  that  white 
house  in  the  trees  Mr.  Castlewood's  ? " 

Ben  nodded,  and  again  Andrews  hastened  his  steps 
until  he  was  side  by  side  with  the  thoughtful  figure. 

"  Mr.  Wallace,"  he  said,  so  gently  that  the  start 
with  which  the  person  addressed  came  out  of  his 
revery  was  scarcely  perceptible,  "  this  is  the  house. 
Shall  I  knock  ?  " 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  ponderous  brass  knocker, 
a  lion's  head  with  a  ring  in  the  mouth. 

John  Wallace  acquiesced  and  stood  waiting  with  his 
form  erect  and  the  strangely  absent  look  banished 
from  his  face,  which  gained  thereby  in  beauty  and 
strength. 

He  became  conscious  for  the  first  time  of  his  sur 
roundings,  though  they  were  obscured  enough  by  the 
late  hour  and  the  mist :  and  the  aspect  of  the  house 
at  which  he  waited  gave  him  evident  surprise  and 
pleasure.  It  was  a  great  old  farmhouse,  or  more 
properly  speaking,  mansion,  with  gables,  and  porti 
coes,  and  oriel  windows,  and  a  certain  air  of  comfort 
and  good  breeding. 

A  stranger  who  was  acutely  sensitive  to  impres 
sions  must  instinctively  have  felt  that  only  true  re 
finement  and  a  quaint  old-fashioned  culture  could 
greet  him  from  such  a  portal. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  25 

A  young  girl  who  was  passing  through  the  well-lit 
hall  singing  gaily,  paused  and  opened  the  huge  door. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  it  was  Tom  !  "  she  murmured 
blushing  and  drew  back  on  seeing  strangers. 

"  May  I  ask  if  Mr.  Joshua  Castlewood  is  at  home  ?  " 
says  Mr.  Wallace,  lifting  his  hat  and  exposing  to  the 
maiden's  wondering  eyes  a  more  nobly  though  deli 
cately  modeled  head  than  she  had  ever  beheld  in  her 
brief,  village  bound  life. 

"  Yes  sir,"  she  stammered,  "  If  you  will  come  in 
I'll  fetch  him." 

The  stranger  bowed  his  thanks  and  entered,  leav 
ing  Andrews  outside  with  the  officious  Ben,  disap 
pointed  of  his  desire  to  follow.  (The  account  which 
poor  Andrews  subsequently  gave  of  how  he  was  be 
deviled  would  be  graphic  if  detailed.) 

"  Please  to  walk  in  and  sit  down,  sir  :  "  and  the  girl 
designated,  with  a  pretty  gesture,  a  large  and  airy 
parlor  full  of  quaint  but  rich  furniture,  and  rare  though 
old-fashioned  ornaments.  It  was  before  the  days 
when  old  style  bric-a-brac  had  become  the  rage,  re 
member,  dear  reader.  These  choice  "antiques  "  were 
inherited  and  made  use  of  in  the  natural  order  of 
things ;  and  not  in  that  aristocratic  old  home  beneath 
the  horse-chestnuts  was  there  ever  any  incongruity  or 
any  modern  affectation. 

"  If  you  will  hand  your  father  this,  Miss  Castle- 
wood,"  with  a  swift  warm  smile,  "  I  think  that  he 
will  see  me." 

It  was  by  one  of  those  rare  touches  of  discrimina 
tion  which  are  sometime,  vouchsafed  to  mortals,  that 
the  stranger's  glance  penetrated  into  this  household 


26  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

and  read  the  daughtership  of  the  flushing  maiden. 
There  have  been  people, — wise  physicians  and  scien 
tists,  who  have  named  this  power  clairvoyance. 

The  pretty  face  vanished  and  left  John  Wallace 
standing  fair  and  firm  as  the  marble  image  of  a  man. 
Many  shadows  flickered  in  the  lights  of  his  peculiarly 
transparent  eyes.  Perhaps  that  was  their  wont  ;  for 
with  it  all  he  preserved  a  noble  tranquility  as  beauti 
ful  as  unusual. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE    SQUIRE    AND    HIS    GUEST. 

"  Thus  far  take  the  truth, 

The  untempered  gold,  the  fact  untampered  with, 
The  mere  ring-metal  ere  the  ring  be  made  / 
And  what  has  hitherto  come  of  it  1     .... 

Was  this  truth  of  force  ? 

Able  to  take  its  own  part  as  truth  should  ? 
Sufficient,  self-sustaining1}    Why,  if  so, — 
Yonder' 's  afire,  into  it  goes  my  book, 
And  who  shall  say  me  nay,  and  what  the  loss  f 
You  know  the  tale  already" 

From  THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 


THE  stranger's  eyes  brightened  pleasantly  as  they 
met  the  approaching  form  of  a  small  but  courtly-look 
ing  gentleman.  He  was  of  that  old-school  type  so 
nearly  banished  from  our  rapid,  if  n&t  altogether  pro 
gressive,  civilization.  When  we  meet  one  such,  we 
wonder  vaguely  why  he  has  abandoned  the  small 
clothes  and  three-cornered  hat  that  would  have  so 
well  become  him. 

The  two  men  bowed  and  exchanged  names.  Mr. 
Castlewood  held  in  his  hand  the  letter  which  his 
visitor  had  given  the  pretty  daughter  of  the  house. 
After  the  commonplaces  of  greeting,  Mr.  Wallace 
observed, — 


2g  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  I  presume  the  Rev.  B H is  not  unknown 

to  you,  Mr.  Castlewood  ? " 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  the  old-school  gentleman, 
with  his  obsolete  bow,  glancing  dubiously,  however, 
at  the  letter.  It  was  so  brief  that  it  can  be  trans 
cribed, — 

NEW  YORK  CITY,  April  i,  1840. 
To 

JOSHUA  CASTLEWOOD,  ESQ., 

Rest- Hampton,  Long  Island. 

DEAR  SIR, — I  take  the  liberty  of  introducing  to  your 
courtesy,  Mr.  John  Wallace,  of  London,  who  wishes  to 
make  his  home  in  your  town.  What  he  desires  in  America 
is  to  find  a  place  where  he  can  live  in  the  utmost  retire 
ment.  If  you  could  take  him  into  your  family  for  the 
present,  I  think  you  would  not  regret  it.  He  is  able  to 
pay  for  whatever  he  wishes,  and  would,  I  am  sure,  be  no 
trouble  to  any  one.  I  believe  him  to  be  in  every  sense  of 
the  word  a  perfect  gentleman.  And  yet  I  scarcely  know 
why  I  have  undertaken  to  plead  his  cause  with  yourself, 
both  he  and  you  being  personal  strangers  to  me.  I  pre 
sume  that  his  superiority  has  impressed  itself  upon  me. 
Hoping  that  I  do  not  calculate  too  far  upon  your  well- 
known  hospitality, 

I  remain  very  truly  yours, 

B H ,  D.D. 

Jushua  Castlewood  paused  an  instant  to  glance 
again  at  the  letter  and  then  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  am  j?'lad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Wallace,"  he  said 
heartily,  with  another  three-cornered  hat  bow.  The 
two  men,  who  were  much  of  the  same  age,  were  far 
from  alike  in  appearance,  the  country  squire  being 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  2g 

ruddy,  with  twinkling  blue  eyes  and  a  shrewd  mouth. 
They  shook  hands  somewhat  formally,  and  drawing 
chairs  together,  fell  to  talking  as  strangers  must  who 
are  thrust  upon  each  other  through  a  letter  of  intro 
duction. 

Any  one  watching  keenly  the  sensitive  face  of  the 
new-comer,  might  have  seen  the  look  of  relief  which 
passed  over  it  at  this  reception.  It  was  as  though, 
through  some  mysterious  mischance,  he  had  known 
what  it  was  to  hunger  to  be  taken  by  the  hand. 

"  Have  you  been  long  in  our  part  of  the  world,  Mr. 
Wallace  ? " 

"  Only  a  fortnight.  New  York  is  a  fine  city,  Squire 
Castlewood." 

"  Yes,  it's  a  busy  place,  I'm  told.  I  don't  go  about 
much  myself.  They  say  it's  not  unlike  London." 

John  Wallace  gave  gracious  assent,  and  a  pause 
followed,  broken  by  the  Squire : — 

"  May  I  ask  if  you  have  any  special  reason  for 
coming  to  live  in  our  town  ?  " 

The  stranger  seemed  to  search  mutely  for  some 
motive  or  object  before  he  replied  : 

"  I  have  no  reason — excepting  that  it  is  the  only 
place  which  has  been  suggested  to  me." 

Squire  Castlewood  looked  surprised,  and  the  other 
added  : 

"  The  clergyman  who  addressed  that  letter  to  you 
referred  me  to  the  village  as  a  quiet  one,  and  to  your 
self  as  a  gentleman  of  well-known  benevolence.  I 
hope  that  I  have  not  intruded  myself  upon  your  no 
tice,  Mr.  Castlewood." 

The  visitor's  dignity  was  apparent  even  to  the  good 


•p  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

squire,  who  did  not  trouble  himself  about  nice  dis 
tinctions.  He  made  a  faint  movement  as  if  to  rise; 
but  his  host  detained  him. 

"  Oh  dear  no — not  at  all !  I  beg  of  you  not  to  be 
disturbed.  But  pardon  my  curiosity,  Mr.  Wallace,  if 
I  ask  another  question.  You  are  a  churchman,  I  sup 
pose  ? " 

"  I  am." 

"  And  you  went  to  the  Rev.  B. H. as  a  cler 
gyman  of  the  Episcopal  Church " 

"  I  met  him,"  answered  John  Wallace,  "  on  the 
steamer  as  I  came  over  to  the  States." 

"  Ah,  I  see,  and  you  had  letters  to  him  ?  or  an  in 
troduction,  possibly  ? " 

"  Neither  :  we  met  as  strangers." 

The  guest  rose  this  time,  with  a  grave  sort  of 
majesty  although  he  held  himself  with  a  gentle  cour 
tesy  very  winning  to  see. 

Squire  Castlewood  rose  too,  eyeing  him  keenly : 

"  I  suppose  you  know  the  contents  of  this  letter  ?" 
"  I  have  not  read  it  "  answered  John  Wallace.  "  I 
fancied  there  could  be  nothing  personal  to  myself 

since  the  Rev.  B. H. had  no  means  of  knowing 

me.  I  took  it  to  be  a  friendly  communication  to  your 
self,  Mr.  Castlewood." 

"  I  have  never  seen  the  Rev.  B. H " 

"  Indeed !  " 

The  delicate  hauteur  that  was  creeping  over  Mr. 
Wallace's  face  gave  place  for  an  instant  to  surprise, 
he  then  made  a  motion  to  leave. 

"  Will  you  just  look  at  it  ? " 

The  squire  held  out  the  letter,  Mr.  Wallace  took  it, 


THE  SHA  DOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  3  i 

a  singular  light  trembling  in  his  eyes  while   he  read. 

Then  he  looked  the  other  full  in  face. 

"  All  that  I  can  say,"  smiling  gravely  as  he  re 
turned  the  letter,  "  is  that  our  mutual  acquaintance  is 
gifted  with  keen  perceptions,  and  is  not  afraid  to 
judge  a  character  intuitively." 

"  Am  I  to  suppose,  Mr.  Wallace,  that  you  saw  but 
little  of  him  on  ship-board  ?  " 

"  Very  little.  Only  when  entering  the  New  York 
Harbor." 

The  squire  stood  irresolute.  Plainly  this  gentle 
man  was  not  going  to  smooth  by  any  polite  subter 
fuge,  the  way  to  his  better  reception.  There  was  a 
chill  in  his  manner  which  fully  met  the  chill  that 
had  overspread  the  squire's  blunt  cordiality. 

He  stood  with  his  hand  upon  the  door,  and  bowing, 
said  with  perfect  politeness  : 

"  I  apologize  for  the  invitation  which  the  Rev.  B. — 

H. gives  me  in  that  letter  to  take  up  my  abode  with 

you  Mr.  Castlewood,  I  had  no  idea  he  was  so  strongly 
recommending  me  to  your  mercy.  I  wish  you  good- 
day." 

Was  it  the  finished  speech  of  a  man  of  the  world 
who  had  perfectly  mastered  every  art  of  suggestion 
and  modulation  ?  Or  was  it  the  genuine  outcome  of 
a  pure  and  undesigning  mind,  such  as  only  belongs 
to  that  highest  and  rarest  of  all  types  of  gentleman— 
a  polished  Christian?  Who  could  tell?  For  an  in 
stant  Squire  Castlewood  had  hesitated ;  but  at  that 
courteous  "  good-day  "  he  started  forward  : 

"  Stop,  Mr.  Wallace,  I  entreat  you.  I  am  very  glad 
to  take  you,  not  so  much  for  our  friend's  evidently 


3  2  THE  SIIA DO  W  OF  JOHN  IV A  LLA  CE. 

just  appraisement,  as  for  the  estimate  which  I  find 
myself  setting  upon  you — if  you'll  excuse  the  scrutiny 
which  one  is  forced  to  give  a  stranger,"  and  he  held 
out  a  second  time  a  cordial  hand  to  the  visitor. 

"  At  least,''  said  Mr.  Wallace,  grasping  it  firmly 
in  his  white  palm,  "  we  need  make  no  great  mystery 
of  my  almost  self-introduction.  That  is  the  way,"  with 
one  of  his  rare  smiles — u  that  our  countrymen  must 
needs  ask  you  people  for  a  welcome.  If  I  had  brought 
a  letter  from  Her  Majesty  the  Queen,  it  could  not 
have  made  any  link  between  us,  you  know." 

Squire  Castlewood  still  studied  his  guest's  face,  hold 
ing  his  hand  meanwhile  with  a  fascinated  forgetful- 
ness.  This  certainly  was  a  strange  man  who  deported 
himself  with  such  pride,  and  yet  answered  with  such 
humility.  And  wherein  lay  the  majesty  of  his  bear 
ing  ?  John  Wallace  was  smiling  into  his  eyes,  as 
though  he  too  read  the  unusualness  of  the  acquaint 
ance. 

"  I  hope,  Mr.  Castlewood,  that  I  may  so  far  trouble 
you  as  to  ask  to  be  directed  to  some  hotel  in  the 
place  ?  you  will  give  me  your  guaranty  ?" 

What  was  that  peculiar  smile  ?  Did  he  mock  the 
honest  squire  ?  or  did  this  stately  John  Wallace 
actually  feel  pleasure  in  the  other's  ingenuousness  ? 

Joshua  Castlewood  could  not  for  the  life  of  him 
tell  ;  but  a  curious  spell  was  upon  him  to  keep  hold 
of  the  stranger.  It  was  as  though  the  soul  of  Jonathan 
went  out  to  the  soul  of  David.  Whatever  the  fasci 
nation,  it  prevailed  ;  he  spoke  out  abruptly  : — 

"  Mr.  Wallace,  we've  never  had  an  inmate  in  our 
family  circle.  It  seems  a  strange  thing  for  any  one 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  33 

to  have  suggested  it  to  me.  But,  do  you  know,  I  like 
it,  and  besides,  the  hotel " 

He  paused  with  a  short  laugh,  the  idea  of  this 
majestic  personage  crowded  into  the  little  inn  was 
ridiculous. 

"You  would  have  to  dine  and  room  with  your 
servant,  most  likely,"  and  they  both  smiled. 

A  look  of  conscious  power  shone  in  John  Wallace's 
face.  He  knew  that  this  kind-hearted  squire  would 
not  resist  him. 

"  Am  I  then  at  home  ?  "  he  asked  pleasantly. 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  "I  like  the  notion.  I 
should  only  be  puzzling  myself  about  a  whim  if  I 
tried  to  unravel  any  reason  other  than  a  chance  which 

caused  the  Rev.  B H to  address  his  letter  to 

me.  But  I'm  glad  he  did  it,  sir,  glad  he  did  it,  I 
believe  I  like  you,  myself :  and  the  novelty  of  a  '  mys 
terious  guest'  may  not  be  unwelcome  to  my  wife.  If 
you  will  wait  a  moment,  I'll  go  and  speak  to  her." 

When  his  host  had  gone,  John  Wallace  relapsed 
into  his  meditative  mood ;  but  his  lips  were  pressed 
together  with  a  sad  suppression  that  fell  upon  them 
at  the  latter  part  of  the  squire's  speech. 

"  Mystery — mystery,"  he  thought,  but  did  not  speak, 
— not  being  one  of  those  who  utter  their  meditations 
sotto  voce — "  why  should  that  word  have  greeted  me 
on  landing  upon  this  desert  region,  and  where  I  am 
to  abide  so  long  as  I  shall  be  in  the  flesh." 

He  sighed  heavily,  and  then  the  cloud  was  thrown 
off  as  by  a  powerful  effort  of  the  will.  Looking  about 
him  with  an  active  though  composed  assurance,  he 
took  note  of  the  large  pleasant  windows  with  their  tiny 


34  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

panes  and  the  moonlight  streaming  in,  for  the  sea- 
mist  had  given  way  to  a  brighter  aspect.  The  cheerful 
light  from  the  open  fire  fell  upon  the  rich  old  Turkey 
carpet,  the  claw-foot  tables,  the  high-backed  chairs,  and 
tall  corner  cabinets  tipped  with  brass,  lingering  upon 
them  with  a  friendly  glow.  But  most  of  all  it  penetrated 
his  heart  until  it  warmed  responsively  towards  "the 
sequestered  world  without,  and  the  comfort  within. 

'*  At  least,"  he  mused — that  being  his  favorite 
method  of  beginning  a  sentence,  as  though  all  things 
uttered  were  but  the  desultory  fragments  of  unspoken 
thoughts — "  I  myself  belie  the  word.  It  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at  that  this  good  squire  calls  me '  mys 
terious'  since  I  have  alighted  upon  his  threshold  as 
from  some  unknown  sphere.  But  my  daily  life  shall 
be  clear  and  open  before  him, — and  if  I  am  a  reticent 
man  and  not  given  to  questioning — nor  to  being  ques 
tioned — why,  what  mystery  is  there  in  that,  save  that 
the  past  and  the  forgotten  are  always  mysterious." 

He  got  up  and  stood  looking  out  into  the  chec- 
quered  moonlit  quiet  of  the  orchard — one  of  those 
fragrant  and  beautiful  old  orchards  that  one  sees  no 
where  so  tenderly  kept  to  this  day  as  in  the  little 
Village  of  Peace  where  John  Wallace  found  himself  a 
scjourncr.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  leafage  upon  the 
trees  ;  but  still  there  was  in  the  air  a  pensive  joyous- 
ness  that  means  Spring.  Long  afterwards,  that  peace 
ful  outlook  lingered  in  the  wanderer's  mind  as  a 
promise  of  rest. 

When  Squire  Castlewood  returned,  there  came  with 
him  a  demure  little  woman  in  a  mouse-colored  gown, 
with  a  mousey  step,  who  gave  a  quick  and  rather 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  35 

prudish  look  towards  the  tall  figure  by  the  window. 
The  figure  came  forward  with  grave  courtesy,  and 
received  the  mention  of  his  name  with  so  courtly  a 
grace  that  it  seemed  at  once  to  take  the  place  of  a 
personal  recommendation, 

"  Joshua  tells  me  that  thee  wishes  to  make  thy  home 
with  us." 

The  Quaker  speech  fell  consolingly  upon  the 
traveler's  ear.  like  an  unconscious  recognition  of  him 
self  as  already  one  of  the  family. 

"Wife  is  a  Friend,  and  is  disposed  to  cultivate  good 
will  towards  all  men,  hey  mother  ? "  spoke  the  Squire 
in  his  hearty  way.  "  She  has  got  to  my  thinking,  a 
hankering  after  the  outside  world  and  is  therefore 

about  to  bid  you  welcome as  a  hostage  for  some 

new  interest  in  life" — he  finished  with  a  chuckle. 

"  I  thank  you,  madam,"  said  the  guest,  with  his 
princely  manner  and  his  humble  words,  which  never 
theless  were  in  unquestionable  harmony. 

"  I  cannot  deny  the  right  of  strangers  to  break 
bread  with  us,"  said  Mrs.  Castlewood,  looking  with 
veiled  approbation  upon  the  new  comer.  "  If  thee 
will  tarry  with  us  for  the  present,  we  will  try  to  make 
thee  at  home.  Is  not  thy  servant  without  ?  I  will 
bid  him  fetch  thy  luggage." 

When  the  door  was  opened,  Andrews  stood  revealed, 
his  face  still  flushed  from  his  wrangling  with  Ben 
Adams,  who  had  gone  grumbling  away  having  failed 
to  elicit  satisfaction  from  what  he  subsequently  termed 
that  "  'tarnation  airy  chap." 

And  so  it  was  all  settled  :  and  John  Wallace  began 
then  and  there  the  thirty  years  which  he  spent  in 


3  6  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

peace  and —  shall  we  say  happiness  ? — under  the  hos 
pitable  roof  of  Squire  Castlewood — the  "  big  man  "  of 
Rest-Hampton,  who  answered  for  county  magnate 
counsellor  and  judge,  for  the  simple  folk. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A    DOUBT    SETTLED.   X 

"  TJiis  self-possession  to  the  uttermost 
How  docs  it  differ  in  aught  save  degree 
From  the  Terrible  patience  of  God" 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

THERE  are  groups  of  life-stories  which  come  to  us 
as  a  symphony,  full  of  concealed  melody,  which  is  re 
pressed  in  the  simple  and  bright  Allegro  of  common 
experience,  the  deep,  full  Larglictto  of  some  high, 
masterful  passion ;  the  gravely  rolling  Andante  of 
placid  years,  or  the  mournful  minor  strains  of  those 
sadder  movements  which  come  to  every  human  lot. 

Now  and  then  the  melody  gushes  forth  in  a  happy 
union  of  sympathies,  but  oftener,  all  is  broken  and 
fragmentary  as  the  lives  jangle  one  upon  another  or 
are  attuned  only  in  brief  bursts  of  harmony. 

The  symphony  which  is  written  in  the  pages  of  this 
book  takes  its  name  from  him  who  is  its  moving 
motive  ;  but  there  are  mingled,  here  and  there,  the 
fitful  themes  of  many  other  and  less  marked  destinies. 

Moreover  to  every  creature  that  exists,  even  those 
who  are  flattened  out  between  the  pages  of  a  romance, 
must  be  given  the  privilege  of  an  opinion,  and  the 
opportunity  to  express  it.  *  *  *  * 

"  Martha,  what  do  you  think  of  our  Mr.  Wallace  by 


38  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

this  time?"  queried  the  squire,  somewhere  about 
the  second  week  after  the  stranger's  arrival.  For,  in 
spite  of  his  wife's  narrow  experience  of  the  world,  the 
chivalrous  gentleman  invariably  appealed  to  her  for 
the  solution  of  any  little  social  problem  which  came 
in  his  way. 

Perhaps  it  is  scarcely  fair  to  represent  Mrs.  Castle- 
wood  as  "  wise  in  her  own  conceits ; "  and  yet  she 
possessed  largely  that  very  self-assurance  which  in 
worldly  people  runs  to  vanity,  but  in  pious  souls 
takes  the  form  of  extreme  reliance  upon  scriptural 
maxims  and  precepts.  It  was  partly  this,  and  partly 
her  Quaker  bringing  up,  which  made  the  staunch 
Calvanists  of  Rest-Hampton  look  upon  her  somewhat 
askance. 

"  I  think  him  a  godly  man,  Joshua,"  she  answered, 
without  hesitation.  Indeed  she  was  always  prompt 
in  her  decisions,  having  a  firm  conviction  that  her 
judgment  was  supernaturally  guided. 

"  It  is  the  spirit  of  truth  which  directs  my  counsel," 
she  was  wont  to  say  ;  and  took  no  account,  openly,  of 
the  frequent  mistakes  which — being  human,  she  made. 
Her  husband  also  overlooked  the  misjudgments,  and 
had,  or  let  her  believe  that  he  had — the  profoundest 
faith  in  her  wisdom.  "  Always  let  on  to  a  woman 
that  you  think  her  right,"  was  his  chivalrous  and 
would-be-worldly  wise  policy. 

This  time,  Squire  Castlewood  took  the  initiative : 

"  Don't  you  think  it  rather  remarkable,  my  dear, 
that  he  should  have  come  in  so  mysterious  a  manner, 
without  something  more  like — like  a  pledge,  you  know, 
of  his  being  a  gentleman  ?  " 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  39 

"  He  is  a  man,  Joshua,  who  carries  that  in  his  face 
and  manner,"  promptly  replied  the  oracle. 

"  Oh  !  I  know  all  that,  my  dear  ;  but,  you  see,  it  isn't 
precisely  the  way  of  the  world  to  go  about  unintro- 
duced — without  a  guarantee  of  some  sort." 

"  A  God-fearing  man  has  no  concern  to  follow  the 
way  of  the  world." 

The  good  squire,  dubious  for  once  in  the  face  of 
his  wife's  argument,  ventured  to  expostulate : 

"  But  Martha,  even  God-fearing  men  don't  wander 
about  like  the  disciples  of  old,  asking  food  and  lodg 
ing  from  strangers — in  these  days,  do  they  ? " 

"  They  ought  to,"  responded  Mrs.  Castlewood  feel 
ing  the  weakness  of  her  side  and  shifting  to  a  broader 
basis.  "  It  is  scriptural." 

"  Yes — it's  scriptural,  admitted  the  other,  "  and  so 
it  is  scriptural  to  sell  all  one's  goods  and  give  to  the 
poor,  and  a  heap  of  other  things  nobody  thinks  about 
doing." 

"  Because  the  world  is  falling  away  from  grace, 
Joshua,  shall  we  misjudge  a  man  when  he  is  merely 
acting  as  the  disciples  did." 

"  But,  my  love  !  "  cried  the  squire  astounded,  "  Mr. 
Wallace  did  not  come  among  us  as  a  disciple, — that 
is  in  any  other  way  than  his  sudden  appearance — nor 
even  as  a  preacher.  As  far  as  I  can  judge,  he  is  a 
man  of  the  world — unmistakably  a  man  of  the  world." 

"  He  may  have  been  in  the  world  but  never  of  it " 
proclaimed  Martha  Castlewood,  unconscious  that  she 
was  but  adding  another  testimony  to  the  silent  accept 
ance  with  which  all  people  met  this  man's  peculiar 
fascination. 


40  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  How  do  you  know,  my  dear  ? "  It  was  the 
squire's  one  helpless  resource  when  his  wife  grew  ob 
stinate  as  she  always  did  whenever  she  had  "  taken  a 
stand." 

"  I  know  because  my  eyes  are  open  to  see  the 
things  of  the  Spirit."  Poor  little  Martha !  good,  true 
soul !  with  thy  contracted  and  untried  views  of  the 
world  thou  hast  never  seen,  how  far  short  of  sufficiency 
wouldst  thou  find  thy  unfounded  assurance  to  cope 
with  the  duplicity  of  men  and  women  in  that  actual 
world  where  the  surface  and  the  finish  are  ever  para 
mount  ! 

But  the  reply  served  as  usual  to  silence  the  safer 
common-sense  of  the  squire.  "  There's  no  getting  back 
of  the  Spirit — what  ever  that  may  be,"  he  was  wont  to 
say,  relapsing  into  the  contentment  of  a  finished  argu 
ment.  For  to  tell  the  truth,  he  was  not  disputatious, 
and  was  oftenest  glad  to  escape  a  discussion.  So  he 
readily  gave  up  that  thread  of  the  discourse  and 
turned  to  a  new  proposition. 

"  Don't  you  see  how  he  evades  all  questions  in  refer 
ence  to  his  past  life,  his  home,  his  occupation,  his  par 
entage,  everything  in  fact " — with  a  despairing  sweep 
of  the  hand — "  which  is  in  any  way  personal — in  any 
way  personal." 

"  I  see,  Joshua,"  replied  his  wife,  with  an  access  of 
primness,  "  that  thee  has  overstept  the  bounds  of  pro 
priety  in  asking  our  guest  many  questions  which  do 
not  appear  seemly  or  in  good  taste.  John  Wallace 
has  a  perfect  right  to  preserve  his  family  history  if 
he  chooses." 

"  Lord,  Martha !  "  cried  the  squire,  half  perplexed 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  41 

half  amused ;  "  suppose  the  man  is  some  impostor 
who  has  settled  down  upon  us  !  Just  suppose  it!" 

"  I  thought  thee  had  fancied  him  greatly  when  thee 
first  saw  him,  and  came  up  to  me,  speaking  of  his  de 
sire  to  remain  with  us."  Mrs.  Castlewood  always  ex 
perienced  an  influx  of  dignity  at  any  suggestion  of 
temper  on  the  part  of  her  husband.  Indeed  it  was 
her  way  to  receive  icily  any  tendency  to  warmth  of 
comment  which  fell  upon  her  ears.  "Violence  is  a 
self-indulgence,"  she  often  said. 

"  Why,  so  I  did  fancy  him,  confound  it !  "  ejacu 
lated  the  perplexed  squire,  "  and  so  I  do  !  But  a  man 
must  protect  himself !  This  mania  for  retirement  is 
so  half  suspicious.  I  hope,"  he  continued  lugubri 
ously,  "  that  we  sha'n't  be  placed  in  any  awkward  posi 
tion.  Suppose  he  has  run  away  from  his  own  country 
for  some  crime  or  other  !  " 

Mrs.  Castlewood  rose  in  the  climax  of  her  virtuous 
self-possession. 

"Joshua,  I  must  say  that  thy  suspicions  are  most 
unaccountable.  Suppose  I  had  looked  upon  thee  as  a 
possible  criminal  when  thee  came  over  a  stranger 
from  the  Island  !  " 

"  The  folks  in  that  Quaker  community  treated  me  as 
if  I  was  one,  sure  enough,"  muttered  the  injured  gentle 
man.  But  the  feminine  side  of  the  argument,  having 
carried  the  battle  over  into  the  enemy's  camp, 
left  the  room  in  that  sweet  spirit  of  silence  which  is 
often  worn  to  cover  alike  a  triumph  or  a  discomfiture. 
"  Hang  it  !  it  is  a  mystery  though  !  "  grumbled  the 
squire,  beginning  to  walk,  man-fashion,  up  and  down 
the  large  low-ceiled  room,  nursing  his  doubt  of  John 


42  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

Wallace ;  when  looking  from  the  window  he  beheld 
the  person  in  question,  walking  vigorously  along  be 
neath  the  great  overshadowing  elms.  Andrews  was 
beside  him,  both  in  animated  talk.  The  two  were 
just  returning  from  an  exploring  expedition  down  the 
beach.  For,  in  spite  of  his  somewhat  sedentary  and 
introspective  life,  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  Mr. 
Wallace  was  a  physically  indolent  or  phlegmatic 
man.  He  had  a  singularly  athletic  though  slender 
frame,  which  gave  him  the  air  of  continual  activity. 
When  at  rest,  his  physique  was  full  of  strong  repose, 
such  as  one  sees  in  the  marble  images  of  Greek 
divinities  ;  but  in  motion,  he  had  more  the  fire  and 
impetus  of  action  which  belonged  to  the  heroes  and 
athletes  of  ancient  days.  His  unbearded  classic  face 
and  whiteness  of  tint  rather  increased  the  resemblance, 
and  brought  into  marked  prominence  the  half  Greek, 
half  Roman  outline  of  his  feature. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Castlevvood !  I  wish  you  had  joined  me 
in  my  tramp.  This  is  a  lovely  bit  of  country,  and  a 
quaint,  almost  old-world  civilization."  He  entered 
the  room  with  the  ease  of  one  quite  at  home  ;  and 
that  he  would  have  carried  that  same  fine  air  into  the 
palace  of  a  king  or  the  hut  of  a  peasant,  did  not  de 
tract  from  its  pleasantness.  It  reassured  the  puz 
zled  master  of  the  house,  who  invariably  felt  all  ques 
tions — they  were  too  vague  to  be  called  doubts — 
vanish  before  the  genial  unconcern  of  his  lodger's 
manner. 

"  What  have  you  found  to-day  to  pay  up  for  the 
rain  and  mud  ?  "  he  asked  cordially. 

"  I  have  found  a  most  interesting  little  town  some 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  43 

five  or  six  miles  below  here — Amagansette,  you  call 
it,  I  believe.  Is  it  not  charmingly  situated  in  that 
wide  curve  of  the  shore  ?  " 

"  Yes — it's  a  pretty  village  ;  not  so  aristocratic  as 
ours,  maybe,  but  a  fine  place." 

"  It  has,"  mused  Mr.  Wallace,  after  a  pause,  his 
gaze  wandering  out  of  the  window,  and  into  nowhere, 
after  his  spirit, — "  a  look  of  home  about  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  it  looks  like  your  home  ? " 
queried  the  other,  catching  at  an  opportunity. 

"  I  mean  this,"  replied  the  guest,  seeming  to  pleas 
antly  accept  and  reply  to  the  question  as  he  un 
derstood  it :  "  that  it  has  an  undefi nable  aspect  of  be 
ing  dear  to  the  people  who  live  in  it.  It  looks  shel 
tered,  and  breathes  content,  even  in  this  nasty  weather, 
and  upon  the  edge  of  a  gray  and  joyless  sea." 

"  Ah — yes — so  it  does,  so  it  does  !  "  responded 
Joshua  Castlewood,  wondering  if  he  had  been  parried, 
or  simply  misunderstood.  And  so  it  always  went.  Mr. 
Wallace  never  left  a  question  unanswered.  His 
courtesy  endured  all  things.  Indeed,  he  replied  with 
apparent  willingness  to  every  suggestion  thrown  in 
the  way  of  his  notice.  But  there  was  always  this 
peculiarity :  that  they  whose  curiosity  led  them  to 
ask  prying  or  even  interested  questions,  never  dis 
covered  aught  that  they  would  know  from  the  answer. 
There  was  always  an  evanescent  reserve,  a  remoteness 
of  generalization  in  the  turn  he  gave  to  the  conver 
sation  whenever  it  bordered  upon  a  personality. 

At  this  present  juncture,  the  good  squire  merely 
rubbed  his  head,  and  eyed  the  handsome  figure,  cogita 
ting:  "I  wonder  what  manner  of  man  you  are,  any 
way." 


44  THE  SHA  DOW  OF  JOHN  IV ALL  A  CE. 

Then  it  occurred  to  him  in  one  of  those  sudden  disclo 
sures  that  come  even  to  unimaginative  people  in  per 
plexity,  that  here  was  a  way  out  of  the  doubt.  He  would 
take  this  man's  identity  by  the  hand  and  say  :  "  Let 
me  know  you.  I  will  be  your  confidant,"  and  with 
out  second  thought  he  broke  the  apprehensive  silence 
that  had  fallen  like  a  pall  upon  the  other,  because  of 
a  strange  clairvoyance  by  which  he  seemed  to  read 
the  unspoken  thoughts  about  him. 

"  Mr.  Wallace — you  are  a  stranger  to  me — to  us 
all.  We  like  you,  and  are  interested  in  you,  but  you 
puzzle  us.  Now,  I  don't  ask  you  to  go  on  the  house 
top  and  tell  the  village  your  business.  All  I  want  is 
that  you  should  give  me  personally  some  rights  in 
your  acquaintance." 

The  firm  white  face  was  a  shade  graver,  more  res 
olute.  Clearly,  this  was  not  a  man  to  be  questioned. 
The  squire's  shaft  had  missed  its  aim. 

"  I  cannot  perceive  that  there  are  any  rights  which 
I  withhold  from  you  Mr.  Castlewood.  There  may 
be  privileges  of  intimacy  which  I  have  possibly  been 
slow  to  consider  " 

"  It  isn't  that  I  want  to  be  a  familiar  friend,"  hotly 
interrupted  the  squire,  his  native  pride  rising, — "  only 
that  I  should  have  liked  more  respect  shown  to  my 
good  faith — my  good  faith,  sir." 

John  Wallace's  gaze  again  wandered  out  into  space, 
and  again  came  back  bringing"  the  fugitive  spirit  cap 
tive.  In  the  long  perspective  of  somewhere,  perchance, 
he  saw  once  more  a  lonely  and  homeless  shadow  that 
was  himself. 

"  When  I  first  came  to  you,"  he  said   slowly,  "  you 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  45 

offered  to  accept  me  upon  your  own  estimate  of  me. 
Have  I  done  anything  to  shake  your  confidence, 
Squire  Castlewood  ?  " 

"  No — oh,  no  !  "  cried  the  other,  beginning  to  back 
out  of  his  assumed  position,  as  he  saw  with  real  con 
sternation  the  trouble  in  the  face  of  his  guest. — "  On 
my  honor,  Mr.  Wallace,  I  like  you  better  every  day. 
I  admire  you — I  respect  you.  Only — don't  you  see 
how  it  is  ? — we  have  never  got  one  step  beyond  that 
first  acquaintance.  I  can't  grasp  your — your  person 
ality,  I  may  say.  All  that  I  know  of  you  is  surface — 
surface." 

"  What  do  you  wish  to  know  ?  "  The  look  that 
met  the  squire's  honest  gaze  was  as  full  of  integrity 
as  his  own. 

"Your  life — your  standing — your  reasons  for  com 
ing  here — the  '  retirement ' — the  mystery — all  of  it." 

For  another  instant  the  two  men  gazed  at  each 
other.  The  word  "  mystery  "  had  struck  somewhere 
near  John  Wallace's  heart.  Then  he  spoke  : 

"  I  am  a  reticent  man,  Squire  Castlewood,  but  I  have 
no  story  that  would  interest  you.  An  honest  man's  life 
is  his  own — as  his  soul  is  his  own — to  give  account 
of  to  his  God.  I  decline  to  discuss  mine  with  any 
human  being.  If  this  seems  to  you  disingenuous  ; 
or  a  breach  of  candor  ;  or  a  cause  for  ambiguity, 
I  can  only  withdraw  myself  from  your  hospitality, 
since  it  must  perforce  be  but  tolerant." 

Never  was  mien  more  grandly  tranquil ;  never  had 
words  seemed  more  to  come  from  a  superior  disdain 
of  inquisition.  Squire  Castlewood  looked  and  beheld 
that  the  man  before  him  was  right ;  he  knew,  there- 


46  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

fore,  that  he  was  wrong.  A  great  self-condemnation 
swelled  up  from  his  singleness  of  heart,  and  he  hastened 
to  acknowledge  his  error. 

"  Mr.  Wallace — if  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  can  scarcely 
hope  you  will  grant  it.  I  don't  know  what  came  over 
me  that  I  should  have  so  trespassed  upon  your  prero 
gatives.  I  seemed  to  have  forgot  that  while  I  owe  you 
unquestioned  liberty,  you  owe  me  nothing  in  the  way 
of  confidence,  nothing !  I've  made  a  great  mis 
take  " 

"  Say  no  more  about  it,  my  dear  sir,"  inter 
rupted  Mr.  Wallace,  his  voice  as  gentle  now  as  a 
woman's,  and  his  whole  aspect  changed  to  one  of 
graciousness  and  magnanimity  ;  "We  all  make  blunders 
in  our  dealings  with  our  fellowmen,  who  may  have 
wounds  just  where  we  take  hold  of  them.  Suppose 
we  forget  that  you  and  I  ever  came  to  a  place  of 
denial." 

"  Forget  it,  I  beg  you,"  cried  the  humble  squire  : 
"  and  be  sure,  Mr.  John  Wallace,  that  I  shall  not  only 
remember  this  rebuke  in  leaving  your  motives  and 
actions  uncriticised  ;  but  in  my  own  innermost  mind 
never  again  will  I  question  your  past,  or  present,  or 
future." 

And  Joshua  Castlewood,  keeping  his  word  as  only 
Puritan  stock  can,  from  that  day  forward  never  once, 
in  his  most  secret  consciousness,  admitted  that  there 
was  anything  equivocal  about  his  lodger.  From  then 
until  their  two  lives  had  run  out,  side  by  side,  there 
grew  and  strengthened  between  the  mild,  city-bred 
scholar  and  the  hearty  country  gentleman,  a  beautiful 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  47 

friendship  such  as  only  an  unintentional  offence  per 
fectly  forgiven  can  create  between  unlike  natures. 

But  "  what  manner  of  man  "  Mr.  Wallace  might  be, 
there  were  others  than  the  Castlewoods  to  discuss. 
The  new  resident  was  stitched  into  the  neighborhood 
quiltings,  and  knitted  into  family  socks,  and  sewed 
into  half  the  garments  of  Rest-Hampton  and  its  envir 
ons.  From  Hardscrabble,  and  from  Amagansette  ;  from 
"  Sag  "  and  from  Jericho  ;  even  from  Montauk,  the 
natives  came  forth  to  look  upon  the  ram  avis  of  the  com 
munity  ;  a  fine  English  gentleman  who  was  a  scholar, 
and  who  was  rich.  And  this  was  their  testimony  ; 
that  he  was  a  harmless  man,  who  might  have  been 
a  lovable  man — to  his  own. 

As  the  years  rolled  on,  however,  he  took  none  of 
all  who  watched  him  into  his  great  heart.  He  hunted 
up  the  poor  and  the  wretched,  giving  to  them  his 
time,  his  patience,  his  means.  It  was  his  one  thought, 
or  rather,  the  one  thought  to  which  he  gave  outward 
and  unguarded  expression.  To  give,  was  his  only 
utterance  ;  and  it  burst  forth  like  the  unconscious 
melody  of  a  song  whose  words  were  in  an  unknown 
tongue  ;  but  whose  sweetness  was  apparent  to  all. 

Annie  Castlewood  alone  came  near  to  comprehend 
ing  the  words  of  the  song. 

What "  new  interest  in  life  "  the  squire's  wife  found, 
was  not  from  the  outside  world,  or  any  echo  of  it 
which  came  through  her  guest's  voice.  It  was  from 
the  contact  with  a  nature  finer,  broader,  and,  withal, 
wiser  than  any  it  had  been  her  fortune  to  encounter. 
It  was  from  that  refreshing  study  which  a  wakeful 
understanding  must  ever  give  to  unaccustomed  per- 


48  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

sonalties  within  reach.  As  time  slipped  away,  there 
never  once  occurred,  even  to  her  inquisitive  mind,  the 
suspicion  of  a  mystery.  So  evenly  did  the  gentle 
scholar  live  his  life  ;  so  rare  was  his  refinement  and  so 
just  his  estimate  of  men  ;  so  full  his  knowledge,  and 
so  deep  his  perception  ;  above  all,  so  wide  were  his 
charities,  that  the  only  consciousness  which  came  to 
the  household,  and  the  village  that  knew  and  loved 
him,  was  a  sense  of  the  harmony  of  his  character  and 
the  beauty  of  his  daily  living. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  CASTLEWOODS'  GUEST. 

"  See  it  for  yourselves, 

This  man's  act,  changeable  because  alive  ! 
Action  now  shrouds,  now  shows  the  informing  thought" 
From  THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

JOHN  WALLACE  was  a  student ;  but  it  appeared  that 
he  did  not  follow  any  one  class  of  subjects.  He  read 
much  Gospel  and  some  Law.  He  kept  abreast  with 
the  new  theories  of  the  day,  such  as  comparative 
philology,  the  development  of  the  species,  and  many 
other  thoughts  just  dawning  upon  the  intelligence  of 
science  lovers.  He  was  of  luxurious  breeding,  since 
he  knew  no  more  than  an  infant  how  to  wait  upon 
himself,  and  depended  upon  the  constant  Andrews  for 
every  common  service. 

"  That  man,"  Dame  Martha  would  ejaculate  with 
a  sigh,  "  knows  not  enough  of  taking  care  of  himself 
to  pull  back  from  the  fire  if  it  scorches  him  ! " 

Such  helplessness  was  a  heretofore  unheard  of  phase 
of  life  to  the  sturdy  and  self-reliant  inhabitants  of  a 
hard-working  village,  which  had  seen  few  changes 
since  its  pioneer  days.  Self-indulgence  was  a  weak 
ness  which  the  Pilgrim  fathers  had  not  brought  with 
them  over  the  unknown  ocean. 

It  was  his  breeding,  not  his  habits,  however,  that 


5o  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

had  been  luxurious,  since  he  ate,  and  drank,  and 
slept  sparingly,  and  was  never  idle  for  a  moment.  Each 
day,  through  rain  or  snow,  or  cold  or  heat,  he  walked  for 
miles  over  the  flats  of  dreary  sand  by  the  lonesome 
and  desolate  sea  ;  or  among  the  dismal  marshes  that 
skirted  the  dunes  ;  or  inland  among  the  farmlands, 
taking  but  little  notice  of  the  goodly  crops  and  the 
well-filled  granaries.  He  made  friends  everywhere, 
but  these  friendships  took  no  hold  upon  him  :  conse 
quently  he  was  rarely  accompanied  by  any  one  in 
his  long  tramps.  What  thoughts  filled  the  breast  of 
the  solitary  man, — solitary  even  in  the  presence  of  his 
faithful  valet,  or  of  any  other  human  creature — who 
shall  guess  ? 

After  a  few  months,  when  he  had  thoroughly 
familiarized  himself  with  his  surroundings,  he  fell  into 
the  habit  of  a  daily  pilgrimage  to  and  from  Three- 
Mile-Harbor — a  lonely  spot  where  vessels  of  any  kind 
were  seldom  seen.  It  might  have  been  merely  habit, 
or  preference,  or  restlessness.  If  John  Wallace  had 
a  superstition  that,  one  day,  a  ship  would  come  to 
him  there,  it  never  appeared. 

Andrews  failed  not  to  bear  him  company  to  this 
deserted  Harbor.  What  long  talks  the  two  men  held 
together,  only  the  valet  knew.  If  Mr.  Wallace  had  a 
confidant  on  this  side  of  the  troubled  sea,  it  was 
Henry  Andrews.  It  may  be  that  he  preserved  to 
wards  this  one  friend  who  had  come  with  him  out  of 
the  unmentioned  yesterday,  the  same  impenetrable 
reticence  as  was  his  habit  towards  all  whom  he  met. 
Of  this,  Andrews  never  spoke.  It  was  like  master, 
like  man  with  regard  to  his  rigid  silence  on  whatever 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  ^ 

touched  the  personal  affairs  of  Mr.  Wallace.  For  the 
rest,  Andrews  loved  him  as  his  own  soul,  bestowing 
upon  him  that  purest  of  hero-worship, — the  sort  that 
looks  for  no  recompense  excepting  the  permission 
to  serve  and  to  revere. 

For  a  while  the  newcomer  was,  as  we  have  hinted, 
the  lion  of  Rest-Hampton.  The  country-folks  called 
upon  him,  after  the  manner  of  friendly  interchange 
known  only  in  rural  places  ;  for  the  fame  of  his  sus 
pected  learning  had  gone  far  and  wide,  and  it  was  also 
rumored  that  he  was  of  a  noble  family  and  lived  away 
from  his  heritage  because  of  some  difficulty  in  decid 
ing  the  heir-ship. A  very  pretty  story,  and  quite 

romantic  to  speculate  upon  !  though  what  gave  rise 
to  it  could  not  well  be  determined,  since  it  was  possibly 
the  offhand  suggestion  of  some  gossip  whose  imagina 
tion  was  more  daring  than  that  of  her  neighbors. 

What  they  saw  who  came  to  look  at  the  lion,  rarely 
disappointed  the  innocent  people,  to  whom  a  man  of 
the  world  was  indeed  a  prodigy.  He  certainly  looked 
a  prince  to  their  admiring  eyes.  What  they  heard 
was  less  edifying.  There  were  no  jovial  stories  of 
old  world  cheer ;  no  marvellous  anecdotes  of  life  in 
strange  places  ;  no  talk  of  court  or  of  crown. 

He  even  seemed  shy  of  answering  their  blunt  queries 
about  London  and  its  attractions,  or  Paris  and  its 
temptations  ;  and  soon  all  mention  of  other  scenes 
dropped  from  their  limited  range  of  topics  ;  indeed  John 
Wallace  spoke  but  little  to  the  coming  and  going  ele 
ments  of  his  new  surroundings.  When  he  did  talk,  it 
was  of  haying  and  planting  ;  of  sowing  and  reaping  ;  of 
the  price  of  crops  and  the  value  of  cattle.  Those  of  the 


52  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

population  who  were  refined  and  cultivated,  such  as 
the  family  who  had  given  him  their  hospitality, 
respected  him  as  a  man  still  more  refined  and  culti 
vated  than  themselves.  The  middle-class  revered 
him  as  a  benevolent  Christian  gentleman,  and  the 
embodiment  of  all  dignity  and  wisdom.  The  lower- 
class,  that  largest  proportion  of  every  community — 
adored  him  as  their  protector  and  benefactor  :  a  half 
celestial  being  whose  only  likeness  to  mortal  folks 
was  in  the  cut  and  material  of  his  trousers  and  waist 
coats  ;  and  even  they  were  better  and  finer  than  any 
thing  of  which  Rest-Hampton  wot. 

After  a  while,  however,  he  began  to  take  a  place 
among  them.  He  was  in  their  world  if  not  of  it.  He 
gave  freely  to  all  of  their  little  schemes  for  self-im 
provement,  and  for  moral  benefit.  By  and  by,  from  a 
never  apparent  source,  newer  and  larger  schemes  be 
gan  to  evolve  out  of  the  old  stupid  routine  of  ineffi 
cient  means  :  and  the  little  township  grew  in  impor 
tance  in  its  own  eyes  and  those  of  its  neighbors. 
Modifications  and  improvements  began  to  be  mani 
fest  here  and  there,  and  a  general  air  of  waking  up 
became  apparent  among  the  younger  generation. 
The  fathers  were  not  greatly  impressed  by  this  pend 
ing  evolution  ;  but  the  sons  hailed  it  as  an  omen  of 
some  future  opening,  not  yet  made  plain.  Old  stay- 
at-home  traditions  were  somehow  shaken  !  and  here 
and  there  a  lad  left  his  plough  and  his  scythe,  to  go 
forth  into  some  remote  city  a-seeking  his  fortune. 
And  John  Wallace's  purse  was  always  open.  It  is 
true  that  there  were  those  who  grumbled.  They  did 
not  want  new  notions,  and  liked  the  old  ways  best. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  53 

They  preferred  to  tell  the  same  threadbare  jokes  their 
fathers  had  told,  over  the  same  blazing  firesides  ;  but 
nevertheless,  they  let  their  boys  go  out  to  see  a  bit 
of  the  world. 

No  one  thought  of  blaming  Mr.  Wallace  personally. 
It  seemed  all  in  the  natural  and  unavoidable  order 
of  circumstance.  But,  strange  to  relate,  the  new 
revolt  began  in  Squire  Castlewood's  own  family — at 
the  very  heart  of  his  affections.  Over  his  daughter 
there  came  a  change,  and  his  two  boys  turned  their 
faces  world- ward,  after  a  few  years.  At  first,  the 
waking-up  was  scarcely  perceptible,  so  long  and 
soundly  had  the  village  slept.  Even  after  the  strange 
power  of  John  Wallace's  life  had  passed  away,  the 
little  hamlet  seemed  still  so  primitive  a  place  to  the 
denizens  of  the  great  Beyond,  that  its  peace  was 
hailed  as  a  discovery,  we  have  seen,  by  the  artists  in 
1878. 

And  so  the  influence  of  this  man  was,  after  all,  but 
a  slow-working  and  possibly  much  exaggerated  ele 
ment  in  the  history  of  Rest-Hampton.  But  what  of 
the  family  among  whom  he  had  come  so  unawares  ? 
In  the  pretty  springtime  of  this  story's  commence 
ment,  when  the  heart  of  that  family  beat  quietly  in 
the  routine  of  its  forefathers,  the  old  farmhouse  of 
The  Homestead  glowed  in  the  early  sunshine,  seeming 
to  embody  in  its  cheerful  exterior  the  contentment 
within.  There  was  something  stately  about  it,  which 
caused  strangers  to  stop  and  inquire  who  lived  there. 
The  high  portico  with  its  white  pillars,  the  wide  por 
tal  with  its  great  door  nearly  always  hospitably  open 
gave  it  an  air  of  repose  most  inviting  to  the  beholder. 


54  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

And  yet  only  those  who  passed  over  the  friendly 
threshold  knew  the  real  luxury  of  comfort  which  the 
old  house  offered  to  all  visitors,  rich  and  poor  alike. 
For  the  handful  of  well-to-do  families,  known  as  "  our 
set,"  to  the  gentlefolks  of  Rest-Hampton,  was  very 
limited  ;  and  humbler  friends  came  and  went  and 
were  made  welcome  with  the  easy  cordiality  of  village 
life.  There  was  something  richer  and  truer  than  the 
style — "  the  mod*  " — of  city  life  in  the  quaint  old- 
school  noblesse  of  these  country  gentry,  who  could 
mildly  encourage  intercourse,  without  permitting 
familiarity,  from  the  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of 
water  that  make  the  background — "  the  shade  and 
the  real, — "  of  every  civilization.  It  was  too  small  a 
community  for  the  narrow  eiiquette  of  Gentility  and 
Obscurity.  They  came  together  upon  the  democratic 
terms  of  the  New  World.  But  the  aristocrats  held 
unbroken  the  traditions  of  their  Old  England  :  and 
never  was  nobility  more  respected  by  commonalty, 
than  the  gentlefolks  of  Rest-Hampton  were  respected 
by  the  villagers. 

As  for  the  Castlewoods, — their  thoroughbred  ac- 
customedness  to  refinement  felt  itself  in  no  way 
abashed  by  the  courtly  manner  and  patrician  aspect 
of  their  new  inmate.  There  was  a  simplicity  about 
him  which  fell  in  easily  with  their  unaffected  ways. 
That  heaviness  of  atmosphere  which  often  hangs 
about  the  advent  of  a  stranger  into  the  home-circle 
did  not  settle  upon  the  homestead.  The  first  meal 
is  usually  the  test  of  probable  restraints  ;  and  upon 
this  occasion  the  family  conversation  went  on  as 
naturally  as  ever,  only  turning  aside  now  and  then  to 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  55 

take  cognizance  of  the  newcomer.  Squire  Castle- 
wood  spread  himself  comfortably  to  relate  his  favorite 
anecdotes,  of  which  he  soon  found  an  answering 
fund  in  his  guest.  The  Quaker  wife  began  to  bring 
forward  certain  themes  and  theories  which  she  had 
long  ceased  to  harp  upon,  since  their  vagueness  met 
with  but  an  opaque  non-comprehension  from  her 
matter-of-fact  husband,  and  a  frown  from  the  some 
what  hard  and  narrow  village  mentors. 

There  were  many  new  things  of  which  she  had 
"  heard  tell  "  vaguely,  and  she  wanted  to  inform  herself 
about  them.  For  the  Friend  is  usually  both  intelligent 
and  inquisitive,  and  when  once  let  loose  from  the  bonds 
of  the  Society  is  apt  to  go  wool-gathering  after  many 
doctrines.  John  Wallace  could  answer  all  of  these 
questionings,  she  thought.  Doubtless  he  had  studied 
them  out :  at  least,  he  could  discuss  them  learnedly 
with  her. 

As  for  the  strapping  boys,  they  pronounced  Mr. 
Wallace  "  a  brick,"  at  once  ;  and  fell  easily  into  the  en 
chanting  subterfuge  of  escaping  their  tasks  under  the 
pretence  of  "  studying  mathametics  "  with  their  new 
friend — who,  good  man,  allowed  himself  to  become  ab 
sorbed  in  difficult  problems  while  his  play  pupils  caught 
flies  behind  his  back,  or  spun  tops  and  pitched  marbles 
under  his  very  nose. 

Even  Annie,  the  maiden  whose  smiling  face  had 
first  greeted  him  at  the  door,  soon  began  to  accept 
Mr.  Wallace  as  "  one  of  themselves."  Perhaps  this 
somewhat  unexpected  ease  with  a  stranger  was  a  reflec 
tion  from  the  demeanor  of  the  mother,  who  never,  in 
her  life  before  had  felt  so  "  at  home  "  with  any  crea- 


56  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

ture  outside  of  her  own  family.  There  was  to  her  a 
charm  of  discovery  about  this  new  acquaintance,  which 
was  a  perpetual  inspiration  to  freedom  of  discourse  : 
and,  as  we  have  suspected,  Dame  Martha's  wisdom  pre 
sided,  Quaker-fashion  over  the  family,  with  the  counsel 
of  authority,  none  the  less  marked  that  it  was  the  rule 
of  love. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ANNIE    AND    HER    FRIEND. 

"  Not  one  flower  of  all  he  said  and  did 
Might  seem  to  flit  unnoticed,  fade  unknown, 
But  dropped  a  seed  has  grown  a  balsam  tree 
Whereof  the  blossoming  perfumes  the  place." 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

THERE  never  was  a  life-story  that  had  not  some 
other  life-story  woven  into  it,  like  a  silken  thread  run 
ning  through  a  pattern  of  wool. 

When  the  pleasant  shadow  of  John  Wallace  passed 
under  the  roof-tree  of  The  Homestead,  the  squire's 
only  daughter,  Annie,  was  a  baby  in  experience  and 
still  a  child  in  years. 

Her  days  among  the  pastoral  scenes  of  village  life 
had  brought  her  only  a  fair  education,  a  little  knowl 
edge  of  sewing  and  psalm-singing,  an  aptness  for 
housewifery — such  good  things,  in  sooth,  as  were 
deemed  needful  in  that  day  and  generation,  to  the 
people  of  the  village. 

Strange  to  say,  it  was  not  the  Quaker  training  of 
her  mother,  but  the  Puritan  prejudices  of  her  father's 
house,  which  made  her  rearing  a  limited  though  most 
careful  one.  These  old-school  gentry  had  not  risen 
above  the  traditions  of  the  town's-people  who  looked 


5  8  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

suspiciously  upon  what  they  called  "  forwardness  "  in 
a  girl.  Annie  had  fallen  under  the  secret  condemna 
tion  of  the  deacons  more  than  once,  for  her  revolt  in 
the  matter  of  reading  and  opinion  ;  for  she  had  an 
ever-increasing  love  for  such  books  as  she  could  find 
in  the  scantily  supplied  farmhouse  libraries.  With 
it,  she  possessed  an  inexplicable  appreciation  for  all 
things  beautiful  and  new.  The  mentors  had  rarely 
approached  the  household  on  the  subject  of  "  Nancy's 
notions,"  for  the  mother  was  by  no  means  a  sub 
scriber  to  their  ways  of  thinking.  The  little  Quaker 
woman  attended  the  village  church,  since  it  was  all 
that  offered  ;  but  having  been  cast  out  by  her  mar 
riage  from  the  narrowness  of  her  childhood's  faith, 
she  was  loth  to  find  herself  confronted  by  an  equally 
stern  and  repellant  form  of  belief.  Her  acceptance 
of  the  mentors  was  tolerance  ;  but  she  possessed  in  a 
large  degree  that  woman's  weapon,  policy,  with  which 
she  led  not  only  her  honest  spouse,  but  also  a  consid 
erable  portion  of  the  village  community,  blindfold. 

So  it  happened  that  Annie  was  left  to  herself,  to 
think  out  her  own  fancies,  which  ran  riot  in  a  world 
beyond  the  narrow  vicinity  of  a  couple  of  rural  town 
ships. 

Is  there  not  a  half  pathos  in  this  girl  of  high  capa 
bilities  and  wide  desires  being  thus  buried  in  the 
obscurity  of  one  little  settlement,  destined,  it  then 
seemed,  never  to  wake  up  to  the  roll-call  of  nineteenth 
century  civilization  ? 

It  cut  her  off  from  those  episodes  which  young 
women  of  the  world  call  "  Experiences."  It  barred 
from  her  eager  eyes  even  a  distant  glimpse  of  that  en- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  59 

chanted  land  of  social  successes,  over  which  she  had 
brooded  in  many  a  romantic  tale.  Even  the  footsteps 
of  a  coming  lover — a  real  lover,  with  wonderful  eyes 
and  a  thrilling  voice,  such  as  the  novels  pictured — 
was  a  remote  possibility,  only  to  be  dreamed  of  and 
wistfully  forgone. 

Ah  !   when  in  that  mysterious   realm  of  unknown 
lovers  does  not  the  fancy  of  a  young  girl  revel  ?     And 
so,  was  it  strange  that  in  the  home-nest,  surrounded  by 
the  only  earth  and  sea  and  sky  she  had  ever  known, 
Annie  Castlewood  was  often  possessed  of  a  homesick 
longing  she  could  neither  define  nor  dispel  ?  a  yearning 
for  another  earth,  another  sea,  another  sky,  which  would 
bring  to  her  empty  little  heart  a  story  such  as  came  to 
the  happy  heroines  of  her  books  and  her  fancies.    The 
modicum  of  sense  and  wit  which  was  sufficient  to  amuse 
and  satisfy  the  village  girls  of  her  acquaintance  left  her 
with  a  restless  consciousness  of  something  better,  she 
knew  not  of.    And  even  among  the  few  old  aristocratic 
families  of  the  vicinity,  she  felt  a  want  of  originality  and 
of  live  interests,  which  brought  her  asense  of  dissatis 
faction.       What  was  vastly  enjoyed   by  these  com 
panions  was  often  a  weariness  to  her  ;  and   although 
her  fresh  spirit  kept  her  happy  and  gay  in  the  midst 
of   the  merest    mediocrities   of  pleasuring,  still   the 
young  creature  had  a  rare  intelligence  above  her  as 
sociates  and,  indeed,  above  her  age.   Her  father  patted 
her  cheek,  and  called  her  a  "  sentimental  Miss  ;  "  her 
friends  wondered    at  her  "  airs"  while  they  relished 
her  society,  as  being  more  piquant  than   their  own. 
More  than  that,  the  Castlewoods  were  of  fine   stock, 
and  stood  high  from  end  to  end  of  the  long  Island. 


60  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

But  the  mother  looked  askance  ;  comprehending  her 
vague  yearnings,  and — after  the  manner  of  her  bring 
ing  up — held  her  peace.  She  too  had  known  indefi 
nite  longings  which  had  made  her  look  away  from  her 
native  village  and  spring  out  at  the  invitation  of  the 
rich  squire,  then  frowned  on  portentously  by  the 
members  of  that  society  secretly  irksome  to  her 
spirit. 

Her  sons,  like  their  father,  she  could  manage,  work 
ing  upon  them  with  her  cautious  influence  :  her 
daughter  evaded  her,  with  what  had  been  her  own 
impulse  to  be  free  of  conventional  restraints.  And 
she  saw  in  some  trepidation,  the  eagerness  with  which 
Annie,  then  but  sixteen  years  old,  welcomed  the  ad 
vent  of  an  outsider  into  the  somewhat  humdrum  life 
at  The  Homestead. 

Was  it  not  the  reflex  of  her  own  eagerness  in  wel 
coming  the  stranger  who  had  come  a  courting  twenty 
years  before  ? 

But  John  Wallace  had  not  come  a  courting  : 

The  mother,  having  a  good  substratum  of  Yankee 
shrewdness,  comprehended  the  difference,  and  the 
danger.  .  .  . 

It  was,  for  a  time,  all  a  story  to  Annie.  Her  young 
soul  was  not  yet  awake,  and  the  stranger  came  to  her 
this  wise  in  a  dream, — 

"  John  Wallace  is  a  real  gentleman.  He  is  an 
Englishman  of  high  birth — perhaps  of  title,  since  he 
wears  a  seal  ring  upon  which  is  a  mysterious  crest. 

"  He  is  a  scholar ;  for  he  reads  books — in  every 
tongue  upon  earth" — little  Annie  thought. 

"  He  wears  the  finest  of  linen  and  cambric,  and  has 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  6 1 

a  servant  to  wait  upon  him,  who  has  far  better  manners 
than  Mary  Harding's  lover,  or  even" — here  Annie 
colored — "  than  Tom  himself." 

(Tom  Hatherton  was  Annie's  sometimes  lover, 
whom  she  encouraged  or  abused  according  to  her 
whim  ;  but  who  was  gradually  falling  away  in  her 
eyes  from  any  approach  to  her  ideal  standard,  since 
Mr.  Wallace  had  over-topped  it  unwittingly,  and  built 
it  up  higher  and  higher  to  sustain  his  ever  increasing 
perfections.) 

Gradually  there  crept  into  her  heart  a  more 
definite  consciousness  of  the  simplicity  of  her  ex 
istence,  the  obscurity  of  her  surroundings,  in  that 
world-forgotten  hamlet  by  the  sea.  The  want  of  ex 
perience,  the  absence  of  originality  in  her  friends 
became  more  and  more  apparent  to  her.  She  began 
to  question  about  the  enticing  complexities  of  a  more 
world-wise  sphere;  and  Annie  grew — not  discontented 
but  sobered  and  quieted.  Her  little  bursts  of  song 
through  the  house  were  quenched,  "  because  Mr. 
Wallace  might  hear  them  and  know  she  had  never 
been  taught  to  sing."  Her  gushes  of  frank  opinion 
gave  place  to  half-studied  remarks,  when  he  was 
present.  She  was  natural  and  sweet  still,  upon  the 
surface :  but  at  her  heart  if  there  be  what  is  senti 
mentally  called  "a  heart,"  at  that  tender  age, — was 
an  ever  increasing  disturbance  that  at  times  amounted 
to  trepidation  in  the  presence  of  her  divinity. 

As  for  Mr.  Wallace,  he  had  liked  the  fresh  young 
voice  and  girlish  enthusiasm.  Sitting  in  his  study, 
day  by  day  he  learned  to  look  for  them  when  they 
grew  less  frequent  ;  and  finally,  as  he  took  notice  of 


6  2  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

this  budding  girl,  he  found  that  she  was  not  a  mere 
clod  as  were  many  of  those  he  saw — indeed  the  woman 
of  the  great  world  is  oftenest  little  more  ! — and  that 
Annie  Castlewood  possessed  a  soul.  Then  he  began 
to  take  an  interest  in  her  little  plans  and  her  thoughts  ; 
for  he  had  that  interest  in  very  young  girls  which  men 
of  fifty  are  apt  to  possess.  The  only  way  in  which 
this  fatherly  interest  thought  to  manifest  itself,  was 
in  her  studies. 

One  morning  at  breakfast  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Castle- 
wood, — 

"  May  I  interest  your  daughter,  madam,  in  some 
of  the  studies  which  I  used  to  love?  with  your  per 
mission,  I  think  we  might  read  a  little  French  or 
German  together." 

The  color  sped  vividly  to  Annie's  delicate  face,  and 
lit  her  soft  eyes  with  a  flash  like  tears, — 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Wallace  !  would  you  ?  "  was  all  she  could 
ejaculate  ;  but  she  said  it  with  her  whole  being  on 
her  lips.  It  was  a  sequel  to  her  story  ;  an  exquisitely 
romantic  climax  of  which  she  had  never  even  dreamed. 

"  Mother,  may  I  ? "  she  cried,  getting  up  and  going 
around  to  her  mother's  chair  with  a  burning  eagerness 
in  her  face,  and  the  pretty  emphasis  she  invariably 
used.  Martha  Castlewood  looked  up,  surprised.  Annie 
never  had  any  confidential  talks  with  her  mother : — how 
many  daughters  have?  How  many  mothers  know  the 
tritest  secrets  of  those  creatures  they  have  brought 
into  the  fitful  fever  of  life  ?  She  was  therefore  ignorant 
that  the  beautiful  web  her  little  "  Lady  of  Shalott " 
had  woven,  was  warp  and  woof,  a  romance  about  this 
strange  knight,  this  stately  John  Wallace,  around 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  63 

whose  feet  she  herself  had  more  than  once  cast  the 
shuttle  of  her  faded  fancy. 

She  thought  her  charge  safely  shut  in  that  tower 
called  home,  within  range  of  her  all-protecting  eye. 
But  alas !  the  little  lady  had  looked  towards  Camelot ! 
—Long  and  intently  she  had  looked,  not  with  a 
woman's  passion,  as  yet,  but  with  a  maiden's  inspira 
tion  of  quest. 

She  did  not  mean  to  love  her  Launcelot.  To  so 
bring  him  down  to  her  own  level  had  not  entered  her 
bedazzled  brain  ;  but  already  she  worshipped  him. 
Ah  !  little  Annie  !  where  is  the  boat  to  bear  thee 
to  Camelot — to  the  death  of  thy  maiden  fancies  and 
of  thy  sweet  unborn  hopes  ? 

At  a  glance,  Annie  saw  that  her  timid  illusion 
stood  in  danger  of  being  surprised  from  her,  and  took 
refuge  in  innocent  stratagem, — 

"May  I  study  French,  mother?  I  do  so  long  to 
know  French." 

The  little  Quaker  woman  paused.  It  was  opening 
the  door  to  the  things  of  the  world  which  had  always 
been  unknown  temptations  to  herself,  and  about  which 
she  had  heard  untold  warnings  in  her  youth.  Having 
suffered  too  much  restriction  to  value  its  wisdom, 
however,  she  was  not  very  narrow  in  her  principles. 
She  prided  herself,  indeed,  upon  being  a  law  unto 
herself,  and  if  this  man  from  the  world,  who  was, 
withal,  a  Christian  gentleman,  chose  to  fancy  her 
daughter,  well— 

If  Mrs.  Castlewood  had  read  the  story  of  Abelard 
and  Heloise,  perchance  she  might  have  held  out 
against  the  questionable  relationship  of  master  and 


64  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

pupil  which  has  so  often  found  a  surprised  termination 
in  a  tangle  of  tender  emotions.  But,  having  outlived 
the  period  of  her  own  romance,  she  had  come  to  think, 
as  older  people  will,  that  after  all  sentiments  are  but 
fleeting  things,  and  can  harm  nobody.  So  she  con 
sented.  Annie  stood  flushed  with  the  coming  triumph 
of  some  vague  achievement  of  which  as  yet  she  only 
saw  the  glitter.  Her  hero  had  crossed  her  horizon 
but  a  few  months  before,  and  yet  already  his  silhou 
ette  loomed  up  giant-like  and  overshadowed  all  the 
realities  of  her  life. 

"  O  Mr.  Wallace  ! "  she  cried,  "  when  may  I  be- 
gin?" 

"  To-day  if  you  wish,"  he  answered,  smiling  brightly 
in  the  infection  of  her  enthusiasm.  Then  to  Mrs. 
Castlewood. 

"  May  we  bring  our  books  into  your  sewing-room 
every  morning  for  an  hour  or  two,  Mrs.  Castlewood  ? " 

Annie's  flutter  experienced  a  faint  chill.  The 
mysterious  study,  lined  with  books  great  and  small, 
which  had  come  in  boxes  from  out  of  her  hero's  past, 
had  formed  a  charming  background  to  the  picture 
which  flashed  before  her  at  the  unexpected  proposition. 
But  John  Wallace  had  the  unfailing  savoirfaire  which 
comes  alone  from  a  knowledge  of  the  world.  The 
story  of  Abelard  and  Heloise  was  not  unknown  to 
him  ;  and  he  had  no  wish  to  reproduce  among  modern 
commonplaces,  the  pretty  pathos  of  that  tale  so  lovely 
in  its  mediaeval  setting.  Apparently  he  was  not  a 
man  to  cause  or  care  for  the  sentimental  in  woman. 
Indeed,  at  this  time  and  always  during  those  years  at 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JO  PIN  WALLACE.  6$ 

Rest- Hampton,  he  seemed  to  have  but  little  capacity 
to  receive  the  magnetism  of  the  other  sex. 

It  might  have  been  that  a  woman  who  would  touch 
his  life  must  be  made  of  finer  stuff  and  rarer  moods 
than  any  creature  whom  Rest-Hampton  could  afford. 
It  might  have  been  that  some  woman  had  once  wrought 
such  a  spell  upon  his  high,  strong  nature,  that  ever 
after  he  was  blind  and  dumb  to  all  feminine  attraction. 
Whatever  was  the  cause,  as  a  result,  he  was  isolated 
beyond  the  infatuation  of  woman's  charms,  and  he 
knew  it.  He  knew  also  that  early  maidenhood,  with 
its  budding  sensibilities  is  over-susceptible  in  the 
matter  of  masculine  influence,  and  seeing  the  sudden 
illuminating  of  little  sixteen-year-old  Annie  Castle- 
wood's  eyes,  he  was  aware  that  he  must  withdraw  his 
best  self  from  an  easy  conquest. 

Had  Annie  been  a  woman,  he  might  have  kept  his 
natural  course,  and  taken  little  pains  to  avert  a  pos 
sible  evil.  But  this  man's  honor  was  of  that  tender 
and  beautiful  texture  which  caused  it  to  reach  out  and 
protect  all  innocent  things,  not  only  from  outward 
harm,  but  from  any  disenchantment  that  might  be 
fall  their  own  imaginations.  Only  a  few  months  had 
passed  since  his  advent  into  Squire  Castlewood's 
family,  and  already  he  found  himself  the  self-appointed 
champion  of  a  sweet  and  simple-minded  girl  against 
herself. 

Gradually  his  manner  took  that  form  of  all  others 
the  most  prone  to  disenchant  an  impressionable  mind, 
—the  fatherly.  He  watched  his  words  that  they  never 
touched  upon  the  ideal  ;  he  was  mindful  of  his  voice, 
beautiful  in  spite  of  the  matter-of-fact  tone,  that  it 


66  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

.never  took  a  too  personal  sound  ;  he  took  note  of  his 
movements,  that  no  gesture  might  mislead  his  little 
charge  into  presupposing  a  sentimental  attitude.  In 
fact,  he  banished  from  their  relationship  all  signifi 
cance  so  as  never  to  cause  a  self-conscious  thought, 
and  thus  became  truly  a  help  and  a  benefit  to  the 
hungry-hearted  girl,  where  he  might  otherwise  have 
proved  a  hindrance  and  a  snare. 

That  he  could  control  the  power  of  his  wonderful 
gaze  was  a  victory  worthy  of  his  pure  endeavor,  since 
his  eyes  were  of  that  "  dark  yet  mild  intensity,"  which, 
says  a  great  writer,  "  seemed  to  express  a  special  in 
terest  in  every  one  on  whom  he  fixed  them." 

This  "large-eyed  gravity,  innocent  of  any  inten 
tion  "  is  a  quality  which  is  possessed  by  few  men  ; 
and  with  it  goes  invariably  the  power  to  dominate  their 
fellow  beings.  But  John  Wallace's  was  a  mellowed 
nature.  He  had  depths  of  memories  to  draw  upon 
which  gave  a  rich  generousness  to  his  impulses:  and 
not  for  worlds  would  he  have  found  Annie  Castle- 
wood's  inexperience  entangled  with  his  conscious  fas 
cination.  He  had  learned,  no  doubt,  through  lessons 
taught  in  that  world  beyond  the  gates  of  Res/ -Hamp 
ton,  the  measure  of  his  "makedom  and  fairness,"  but 
the  sharpness  of  those  lessons  had  quenched  forever 
all  desire  to  make  himself  a  necessity  to  the  human 
creatures  about  him.  These  more  subtle  points,  how 
ever,  were  lost  upon  the  villagers  in  general 

All  that  came  to  pass  from  the  new  bond  of  intimacy 
between  him  and  his  young  protege,  was  that  it  saved 
Annie  from  falling  in  love — deeply,  romantically, 
desperately  in  love. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  67 

Gradually  the  demi-god  descended  from  the  pinnacle 
where  she  had  placed  him,  and  came  to  be  her  watch 
ful  friend,  her  patient  instructor,  her  trusted  adviser. 
From  a  dreamland,  beset  with  many  risks  to  the 
unsophisticated  heart  of  a  woman-child,  they  passed 
out  into  the  open  country  of  a  wise  and  safe  inter 
course.  And  Annie  was  uplifted,  mentally  and 
spiritually  into  a  region  above  her  own,  while  she  was 
strengthened  for  the  realities  of  her  daily  life. 

In  all  the  after  years  of  her  life,  the  girl  never  forgot 
the  ripening  influence  of  her  wise  friend's  sympathy, 
the  restful  self-reliance  which  grew  out  of  his  com 
prehension  of  her  character,  as  it  broadened  and 
beautified  beneath  his  moulding. 

This  friendship  became  also  a  chief  resource  to  the 
being  who  suddenly  found  himself  buried  in  a — to  him 
— social  grave :  and  perhaps  it  helped  the  grave 
scholar  to  hear  whatsoever  things  he  had  to  endure, 
through  many  hours  of  tedious  lack-interest  in  his 
narrow  surroundings,  the  prison  house  of  a  master- 
soul. 

Sometimes,  when  he  bent  his  penetrating  gaze  upon 
her,  as  if  by  his  superior  will-power  he  would  compel 
her  understanding  to  grasp  and  retain  the  more  dif 
ficult  themes  to  which  French  and  German  soon  led 
the  way, — Annie  would  sit  spellbound,  drinking  in 
not  so  much  the  man's  speech  as  his  magnetism,  and 
through  it  a  whole  world  of  unspoken  possibilities. 

Then  he  would  look  at  her  curiously  for  a  moment, 
abruptly  call  her  back  to  the  question  in  hand,  a  far 
away  trouble  in  his  own  eyes  at  the  resurrection, 


68  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

possibly,  of  some  ghost  of  past  fancies  that  Annie's 
newly  awakening  imagination  called  up. 

Often  he  thought — but  never  said  to  her, — 

"  Child,  you  are  dear  to  me  as  a  revelation  of  my 
lost  youth  and  hope." 

Or — "  Annie,  you  are  my  one  link  to  bind  me  to  my 
old  interest  in  all  things  fresh  and  new." 

Or — "  But  for  you,  innocent  child-heart,  there  would 
not  be  a  ray  of  sunshine  upon  my  lonely  track,  where 
I  must  forever  wander  in  renunciation  of  what  might 
have  been  my  happiness." 

Surely  John  Wallace  was  not  learning  to  love  the 
little  country-girl  he  had  lifted  with  so  paternal  a  pity 
out  of  the  stagnation  of  her  unfulfilled  dreams  ?  If 
he  were,  he  taught  himself  at  once  that  her  untroubled 
life  was  not  for  him.  If,  by  degrees,  his  heart  began 
to  yearn  over  her  sweet  and  trusting  face,  no  one  ever 
knew.  It  was  put,  with  all  things  else,  behind  the 
delicate  mask  of  his  habitual  reticence,  Annie  Castle- 
wood,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  was  kept  on  the 
outside. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that,  by  the  side  of  this  supreme 
intelligence,  Annie's  quondam  lover  Tom  Hatherton 
will  figure  as  a  somewhat  coarse-grained  personage. 
To  her  own  fastidiousness,  which  was  growing  acute, 
he  seemed  indeed  blunt  in  his  perceptions  and  stupid 
in  his  expressions. 

Any  approaches  to  love-making  on  his  part,  formerly 
viewed  askance  with  a  shy  dubiousness,  suddenly 
grew  so  distaseful  to  her,  that  it  was  not  a  difficult 
matter  to  evade  their  recurrence. 

While  Mr.  Wallace's  intentions   were  keen-edged, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  W 'ALL  ACE.  69 

gently  opening  to  himself  as  with  a  wedge  her  inner 
most  reflections,  Tom's  comprehension  had  seemed 
latterly  rather  like  the  blunt  end  of  the  same  instru 
ment.  And  yet — who  can  tell  which  of  those  two 
men  was  of  pure  stuff  and  which  of  base  !  There 
was  the  ring  of  the  true  metal  in  Tom  Hatherton. 
All  Rest-Hampton  could  vouch  for  it !  As  for  Mr. 
Wallace — well,  he  was  very  fine,  and  very  benevolent 
— and  all  that.  But  as  to  his  devoting  himself,  at  his 
time  of  life — to  the  Squire's  Nancy  ! — 

Rest-Hampton  wondered  how  the  mother  could 
allow  it.  Was  he  not,  after  all,  a  stranger,  and  made 
of  different  material  from  themselves  ? — A  foreigner, 
too !  Something  that  Rest-Hampton  questioned,  in 
spite  of  his  fascination. 

Whether  he  was  good  gold,  or  only  fine  brass, 
Deacon  Potts  strongly  doubted.  Certain  it  was,  he 
said,  the  stranger  was  not  of  their  faith.  He  never 
attended  their  meetings,  and  took  no  part  in  their 
Sabbath  school.  He  went  to  the  village  church,  it  is 
true :  but,  the  Deacon  averred,  he  sat  abstracted  and 
aloof  as  though  he  heard  nothing  of  the  long  discourses, 
even  the  village  choir,  with  Nancy  Castlewood's  voice 
leading  the  treble,  did  not  appear  to  impress  him. 
Clearly  his  heart  was  not  in  any  of  it.  In  the  eyes 
of  Rest-Hampton,  this  was  where  John  Wallace  failed 
and  came  short  ;  and  he  began  unconsciously  to  bring 
upon  himself  the  antagonism  of  Deacon  Potts  and  his 
disciples. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A    PHANTOM. 

"  Now  begins 


The  tcnebrific  passage  of  the  tale : 

How  hold  a  light  display  the  cavern's  gorge? 

How,  in  tJiis  phase  of  the  affair,  show  truth  ?" 

From    THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

IT  was  a  gentle  afternoon  in  the  first  part  of  Sep 
tember.  That  tender  luminousness,  which  haunts 
the  early  autumn  in  moist  climates,  was  veiling  the 
land  and  the  sea  in  a  transparent  loveliness  difficult 
to  be  imagined  by  those  who  dwell  in  a  less  humid 
atmosphere.  It  is  this  soft  and  translucent  vaporous- 
ness  which  makes  the  purple  and  gold  of  Italy  so  far 
transcend  the  clear  blue  and  green  and  white  of 
Switzerland. 

It  lingers  about  the  beholder  like  the  caress  of 
nature  in  her  most  sympathetic  mood  ;  while  the  crisp 
brightness  of  outline  makes  the  beauty  of  drier  locali 
ties  stand  remote  from  the  observer,  with  but  little 
appeal  to  his  affections.  With  all  his  sensitiveness 
of  temperament,  John  Wallace  was  not  a  sympathetic 
lover  of  nature.  Facts  and  not  aspects  made  up  the 
interest  of  his  life,  dreamer  though  he  was.  Places 
were  but  little  to  him  :  otherwise,  how  could  he  have 
endured  his  thirty  years  in  an  alien  land  ? 

I  doubt  if  the  mildness  of  the  landscape  around  him, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  ^ 

contrasting  and  yet  harmonizing  with  the  restlessness 
of  the  sea,  ever  occurred  to  him  as  constituting  a 
part  of  his  satisfaction  in  life.  Neither  in  speaking 
nor  in  writing  was  he  likely  to  refer  to  those  mute 
attractions  from  the  outer  creation  which  enter  so 
largely  into  the  thoughts  of  nature's  worshippers.  The 
greater  and  more  vivid  portion  of  his  existence  had 
probably  been  spent  among  crowded  scenes  of  intel 
lectual  and  social  activity  ;  and  he  had  never  felt  a 
need  of  affiliation  with  the  infinite  as  expressed  in  the 
animal  and  vegetable  worlds.  His  natural  surround 
ings,  like  his  mental  confines  of  the  little  sea-side 
village,  were  but  a  blank — a  "  biding "  :  and  the 
characteristics  of  the  place  were  but  little  reflected  in 
his  fancy.  Its  people,  its  peculiarities,  its  progress, 
became  a  study  to  him  ;  with  these  he  could  in  a  man 
ner  identify  himself. 

But  on  this  September  afternoon,  he  felt  creep 
over  his  senses  a  recognition  of  the  charm  of  Earth 
and  sea  and  sky.  The  amber  haze  descended  upon 
him  and  wrapped  him  in  a  spell  of  delight  almost  child 
like  in  its  unconsciousness.  He  dismissed  Andrews 
and  began  walking  alone  upon  the  widespread  sands, 
watching  the  waves  chase  each  other  inland,  and  even 
stooping  now  and  then  to  pick  up  a  shell  or  a  shining 
pebble.  These  he  examined  with  a  charming  relish, 
singular  to  behold  in  one  who  so  seldom  relaxed  from 
his  introspective  habit  of  mind.  Thoughts  and  remi 
niscences  of  his  early  youth  swept  over  him  and  there 
came  into  his  face  the  care-free  look  of  a  boy. 

Meanwhile,  some  distance  back  from  the  beach, 
hovering  about  the  nearest  dunes,  was  a  figure  in  a 


•j2  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

gray  robe,  that  seemed  to  appear  and  disappear,  to 
flit  and  to  follow  the  figure  of  John  Wallace.  Any 
one  seeing  it  for  the  first  time  might  have  mistaken 
it  for  a  wraith — so  ghostly  were  its  movements.  But 
any  one  that  had  seen  a  strange  lady  whose  arrival  had 
aroused  the  passing  curiosity  of  the  little  hotel,  might 
have  recognized  this  gray  shape  as  the  same. 

During  the  few  days  since  her  stay  at  Mr.  Dag- 
gett's,  she  had  come  and  gone  at  her  will,  speaking 
so  little  that  the  good  man  had  several  times  pro 
nounced  her  to  the  secrecy  of  his  wife's  bosom  "  a 
harmless  innocent." 

"  She  don't  know  no  one  hereabout,"  he  commented, 
"  and  she  don't  come  for  no  purpose,  that  I  can  make 
out." 

"  Maybe  she  wants  to  get  up  a  school  of  some  sort,'' 
suggested  Mrs.  Daggett,  shrewdly. 

"  Well,  why  don't  she  begin  then  ?  I  ain't  heerd 
of  her  as  applyin'  to  nobody  yet  for  their  children." 

"  She's  likely  to  pay  her  board,  I  reckon :  and 
nothink  else  don't  matter,  as  I  can  see,"  was  the  prac 
tical  help-meet's  rejoinder. 

The  only  people  about  whom  she  had  asked  any 
question  were  the  Castlewoods  ;  and  she  had  selected 
for  her  inquiry  a  person  who  appeared  to  her  as  she 
had  appeared  to  Mr.  Daggett — *'  a  harmless  innocent." 
It  was  none  other  than  old  Uncle  Seth  himself — the 
village  postmaster — whom  she  had  accosted,  and 
whose  gossiping  propensities  were  well  known  to  the 
natives.  Still,  nothing  had  come  of  her  inquiries  be 
yond  a  few  repetitions  of  them  at  the  u  post-office," 
as  Uncle  Seth  thumbed  over  the  mail. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  73 

"Squire  Castlewood  seems  to  catch  all  the  stran 
gers  a'go'en,"  commented  Uncle  Seth. 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  cried  the  innkeeper  scornfully, 
"  it  ain't  much  of  a  catch  for  the  squire,  if  the  lady 
pays  her  board  here,  and  don't  do  nought  but  philan 
der  about  the  street,  an  ask  questions  about  the  family 
up  to  The  Homestead.  Now  that  there  Mr.  Wallace 
was  a  good  fish  to  hook  !  " 

•'  Well  I  reckon  we're  likely  to  make  as  good  a  haul 
from  him  as  if  he'd  put  up  to  your  place,  Ham  Dag- 
gett,"  said  Uncle  Seth  with  a  wily  smile  ;  for  Mr. 
Wallace  had  paid  him  liberally  for  looking  after  his 
mail.  This  mail  was  the  marvel  of  all  the  idlers  at 
the  little  stuffy  shop  of  all  work,  where  at  one  counter 
was  designated  in  staggering  capitals  on  the  broad 
side  of  an  old  board,  POST  OFFICE.  Such  piles  of 
letters  and  papers  and  pamphlets  as  came  to  Mr. 
Wallace  swelled  the  sides  of  the  hitherto  attenuated 
mail  bag :  while  there  went  forth  in  return,  enough 
leretts  to  make  Uncle  Seth  open  his  eyes  in  amaze 
ment  and  wonder  "  to  gracious  "  what  a  body  could 
find  to  write  that  would  cover  so  many  sheets  of 
paper. 

"  And  all  to  one  chap,  tew  !  "  he  was  wont  to  ex 
claim,  for,  sure  enough,  the  envelopes  were  all  alike, 
for  they  bore  the  same  address  in  the  same  rapid 
literary  hand  : 

To  MR.  RODERIC  CLARKSON    BANKER, 
LOTHBURY, 

LONDON,  E.  C., 

ENGLAND. 


74  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

When  the  female  stranger  had  arrived,  the  old 
cronies  had  put  their  heads  together  over  each  mail 
that  came  and  went,  to  find  some  food  for  gossip  in 
any  letter  that  had  to  do  with  Mrs.  Williams,  as  Ham 
Daggett  announced  her  name  to  be.  But  they  looked 
in  vain.  She  never  appeared  at  the  post  office,  nor 
did  her  name  pass  under  Uncle  Seth's  snuffy  thumb. 
Truly  the  strangers  who  came  to  Rest-Hampton  gave 
these  old  gentlemen  a  deal  of  trouble.  It  is  well 
there  was  no  system  of  postal-cards  in  vogue,  to  make 
their  burden  of  inspection  intolerable. 

To  leave  the  gossip  of  these  interesting  fossils,  with 
whom  the  village  was  replete,  and  follow  the  footsteps 
of  "  The  Lady  "  in  question,  brings  us  back  to  the 
beach.  After  she  had  left  the  straggling  houses  be 
hind,  her  quick  walk  became  almost  a  flight.  As  she 
approached  the  sea,  the  flight  grew  uncertain  and 
stealthy  in  its  progress.  Very  likely  she  feared  tramps 
or  stragglers,  for  she  looked  furtively  around.  Upon 
perceiving  the  tall  figure  of  a  man  upon  the  beach, 
she  quickly  hid  herself  behind  the  dunes. 

Now  this  figure  was  only  Mr.  Wallace,  amusing 
himself  with  the  waves  and  the  pebbles  ;  but  it  seemed 
to  inspire  her  with  some  sort  of  terror.  As  often  as 
she  peered  forth,  which  she  frequently  did,  so  often  she 
shrank  back  as  if  to  conceal  herself  from  possible  dis 
covery. 

An  hour  or  two  had  passed  since  the  habitually 
serious  scholar  had  thrown  off  the  burden  of  years 
and  cares  to  conceive  himself  once  more — a  youth. 
The  shadow  had  lifted  from  his  spirit.  Any  one 
watching  him  casually  would  have  called  him  light- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  75 

hearted.  As  he  wandered  towards  the  dunes,  stoop 
ing  now  and  then  to  pick  up  a  shell,  white  like  a  lily- 
petal,  or  pink  like  a  roseleaf,  he  suddenly  seemed  to 
return  to  a  consciousness  of  his  entity.  He  passed 
his  hand  over  his  forehead  with  a  weary  sigh,  turning 
his  head  slowly  from  side  to  side,  as  one  looking  for 
he  knows  not  what. 

A  cloud  settled  upon  his  face  ;  and  his  eyes  were 
fixed  restlessly  upon  the  dunes.  He  seemed  like  a 
person  slowly  rousing  to  the  suspicion  that  he  is  under 
an  evil  spell,  or  in  whom  some  miserable  memories  of 
the  spot  had  surged  up. 

"  If  I  had  any  belief  in  the  supernatural,"  he  mut 
tered  to  himself,  "  I  should  say  that  my  spirit  is  at  this 
moment  visited — haunted — by  another  spirit." 

And  he  stood  gazing  into  vacancy  like  one  in  a 
trance.  Presently  he  roused  himself  and  shook  off 
the  hallucination  : — 

"  As  if,"  he  thought,  with  a  faint  smile, — "  It  were 
possible  for  all  the  miles  of  space  between  us  to  be 
traversed  by  an  influence — or  an  infatuation  !  " 

He  turned  himself  resolutely  around,  and  began, 
solitary  and  thoughtful,  his  homeward  walk. 

As  for  the  gray  figure  lurking  among  the  sand 
hills, — when  John  Wallace  had  stopped  and  changed 
countenance,  lifting  his  hand  to  his  head  in  bewilder 
ment, — she  had  fallen  into  a  panic,  leaning  forward 
in  her  hiding-place  with  parted  lips  and  suspended 
breath,  watching  him  with  an  animal  intensity,  that 
doubtless  made  itself  felt  in  the  mind  of  the  uncon 
scious  object. 

"  Can  it  be,"  she  whispered,  with  fierce  exultation, 


j6  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  that  he  feels  my  presence  ? — That  my  magnetism 
has  even  now  a  power  over  him  ? " 

She  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands  as  if  to  shut 
out  the  dangerous  fire  of  their  gaze,  the  blood  bound 
ing  through  her  frame  with  frightful  vehemence. 
Presently  she  found  herself  again  watching  the  mel 
ancholy  figure  as  a  snake  is  said  to  transfix  its  prey. 

"  What  did  I  risk  it  for,  if  not  to  see  him-  —to  have 
him  see  me  ?  "  she  muttered.  "  Oh  !  if  I  only  dared 
to  follow  him — to  speak  to  him  !  " 

It  seemed  for  an  instant  that  Mr.  Wallace  would 
walk  toward  the  dunes  and  discover  her,  so  keen  was 
his  look  in  that  direction.  The  possibility  struck 
such  terror  to  the  woman  that  she  cowered  and 
shrank,  and  covered  her  face  and  turned  her  back 
upon  the  spell  she  had  wrought*.  Then  it  was  that 
the  figure  on  the  beach  drew  itself  up  majestically,  as 
if  asserting  its  superiority  over  a  fanciful  illusion. 
The  next  moment,  as  we  have  seen,  John  Wallace 
had  turned  away,  and  was  walking  towards  the  vil 
lage.  Then  the  woman  breathed  freely  once  more,  her 
eyes  still  glittering  with  a  baleful  exultation.  Fur 
tively,  like  some  escaped  convict  who  believes  that 
he  is  pursued,  she  peered  out  and  finally  stole  forth. 
She  stood,  half  hid  by  a  jetting  sand-bank,  and 
watched  the  unwitting  man.  She  felt  that  she  had 
narrowly  escaped  detection,  but  her  trepidation  was 
momentarily  swallowed  up  in  the  evil  triumph  that 
she  had  perceptibly  dominated  this  creature  by  a 
secret  but  undeniable  power.  The  power  had  acted 
like  a  flash  of  some  electric  current  which  she  could 
neither  explain  nor  command. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  77 

If  there  are  those  who  will  call  John  Wallace  weak, 
in  that  he  was  overwhelmed  unawares  by  the  force  of 
an  unseen  will,  let  them  look  closely  into  the  psycho 
logical  facts  of  mind  acting  upon  mind.  There  may, 
however,  be  two  opinions  about  the  probability  of  a 
nameless  magnetic  sympathy  having  the  directness  of 
force  to  cover  any  considerable  space.  Possibly — to 
advocate  the  negative  side  of  the  question — John 
Wallace  was  not  overwhelmed  by  the  influence  itself, 
but  by  a  sudden  resurrection  of  would-be  forgotten 
things  conj  ured  up  by  a  subtle,  and  to  him  unaccounted- 
for,  reminder  of  a  woman's  existence  in  his  past  life. 
It  was  the  rush,  then,  of  painful  reminiscences  which 
made  him  pause,  and  press  his  hand  to  his  head, 
rather  than  any  spiritual  cognizance  of  an  unseen 
proximity. 

It  will  be  perceived,  nevertheless,  that  Mr.  Wal 
lace  possessed  some  singularly  sensitive  mental  force 
which  both  acted  upon  others,  as  in  the  case  of  Annie 
Castlewood,  and  was  susceptible  of  being  acted  upon, 
as  we  have  seen  in  the  present  instance.  That  he 
did  not  more  directly  resist  the  influence,  was  be 
cause  he  was  unaware  of  it. 

So  ungovernable  was  this  woman's  mental  excite 
ment,  that  she  was  wholly  unaware  of  the  going  out 
again  of  the  same  violent  force.  All  at  once  John 
Wallace  turned  sharply,  looked  back,  and  even  re 
traced  a  few  steps.  The  suddenness  of  the  move 
ment  caused  the  watcher  to  catch  her  breath  and 
rendered  her,  for  the  space  of  a  second,  wholly  unable 
to  dart  out  of  the  range  of  his  vision. 

A  cold  sweat  broke  over  his  brow,  and  he  stood  ir- 


73  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

resolute.  Any  other  man  would  have  acknowledged 
to  himself  that  he  had  seen  a  phantom ;  for  the  amber 
haze  had  melted  into  the  violet  mists  of  evening, 
which  rendered  objects  far  from  distinct. 

He  remained  transfixed  for  a  palpitating  moment, 
and  then  went  calmly  on  his  way,  without  again  look 
ing  back. 

"  I  should  be  a  weak  fool,"  he  said  within  himself, 
"to  think  of  it  again." 

And,  there  being  no  taint  of  superstition  in  his 
blood,  which  had  doubtless  been  book-cultured  for 
generations,  he  did,  in  fact,  let  the  circumstance  slip 
from  his  mind.  He  never  again,  however,  on  the 
beach  or  off,  had  in  his  face  that  beautiful  look  of 
youth.  It  was  gone.  Something  had  killed  it.  Or, 
more  likely,  it  had  long  since  departed,  and  the  sur 
prise  of  that  lovely  September  afternoon  had  only 
called  up  a  fleeting  likeness  in  its  image. 

And  what  became  of  the  creature  whose  passionate 
insistence  had  conjured  so  fatal  a  spell  ?  She  hung 
about  the  dunes  for  an  hour,  in  momentary  fear  of  the 
return  of  him  she  nevertheless  sought.  Even  as 
she  called  up  the  look  of  his  clear  and  penetrating 
eyes,  with  an  inward  fire  in  them  which  she  probably 
knew  well,  she  trembled  and  clasped  her  hands  over 
her  heart.  Truly,  she  was  in  abject  terror  of  John 
Wallace.  And  he,  during  the  next  few  days,  felt,  it 
must  be  confessed,  an  unaccountably  keen  prescience 
of  some  disturbing  force  at  hand. 

Probably  if  he  had  believed  in  all  those  soothsay 
ing  phenomena  of  the  mind,  the  contemplation  of 
which  gave  Mrs.  Castlewood  such  singular  pleasure, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  79 

he  might  have  made  an  excellent  clairvoyant,  or  even 
a  so-called  medium — in  expert  hands.  For  his  sen 
sitive  organism  was  easily  played  upon  and  responded 
with  painful  acuteness  to  every  influence.  Had  he 
been  disposed  to  play  the  impostor,  he  might  readily 
have  claimed  gifts  of  divination,  or  a  foreknowledge 
of  events.  Equally,  he  might  have  been  made  a  dupe 
of  by  those  precious  individuals  who  call  themselves 
mind-readers,  thereby  filching  money  from  the  igno 
rant  and  the  superstitious,  had  not  his  force  of  character 
and  principle  been  greater  than  his  force  of  tempera 
ment.  The  fact  was,  that  a  grey  figure  passed  and 
repassed  the  squire's  peaceful  house  with  untiring 
persistence.  There  were  nights  when,  unknown  to 
any  living  creature,  she  paid  stolen  visits  beneath  the 
casements  of  those  windows  where  Mr.  Wallace,  rest 
less  and  sleepless,  burned  his  midnight  lamp  in  uneasy 
thought  or  disturbed  study. 

Once  he  fancied  he  heard  a  sound  of  some  creature 
sobbing  near  the  house.  He  opened  his  window  and 
gazed  forth  into  the  night.  All  was  as  still  as  the 
grave,  save  the  eternal  rushing  of  the  sea  upon  the 
shore,  and  the  sighing  of  the  wind  through  the  great 
sheltering-trees. 

"  Sometimes  I  am  weary  to  death  of  yonder  moan 
ing  and  restless  ocean/'  he  murmured  to  his  own 
thoughts.  "  Sometimes  I  long  to  be  land-locked  by 
those  far  away  hills  of  purple  heather  "- 

He  sighed  heavily,  and  then  paused,  listening.  A 
sigh  seemed  to  answer  him  which  was  more  human 
than  the  wailing  of  the  wind  in  the  distant  elm-trees. 
Then  he  closed  the  casement  and  soon  after  lay  down 


So  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

upon  his  solitary  bed,  wakeful  and  beset  by  a  strange 
phantasmagoria  within. 

Probably  that  is  the  only  time  when  Squire  Castle- 
wood's  house  can  be  said  to  have  been  haunted. 

Certain  it  was,  that  such  a  restlessness  had  come 
over  the  spirit  of  the  lonely  man,  as  to  cause  him  to 
take  a  brief  journey.  This  was  not  in  any  sense  a 
retreat,  for  no  suspicion  of  the  truth  crossed  his  mind. 
He  went  forth  driven,  as  he  thought,  by  the  unquiet 
of. his  own  heart ;  and  the  shadow  went  with  him. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A     NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 

"  I  want  your  word  now  ;  what  do  you  say  to  this  ? 
And  what  did  God  say  and  the  devil  say  ? — 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

MR.  WALLACE  was  going  down  to  New  York,  to  be 
absent  for  a  week — "  on  business,"  he  said  ;  though 
what  the  "  business  "  might  be,  none  could  have  told, 
since  a  more  profound  ignorance  than  his  of  busi 
ness  matters  could  not  well  be  imagined. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  quitted  the  neighbor 
hood  of  Rest-Hampton  since  his  arrival  eighteen 
months  before.  His  portmanteau  was  made  ready, 
and  he  started  on  his  drive  to  Sag  Harbor  to  take  the 
boat,  not  in  the  old  rumbling  stage  by  which  he  had 
come,  but  behind  a  pair  of  the  squire's  best  horses. 
Andrews  was  in  transports  at  the  prospect  of  a  change ; 
and  the  family  stood  at  the  door  to  bid  them  God 
speed. 

"  Bring  us  something  first-rate  when  you  come 
back  ! "  called  the  graceless  boys,  and  with  a  flour 
ish  of  the  whip  and  a  profusion  of  farewells,  he  was 
whirled  away. 

There  was  a  lady  in  a  gray  dress  passing  by  on  the 
other  side  of  the  wide  green  lane,  or  was  it  only  the 


82  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

phantom  of  a  lady  in  grey  ?  At  least  no  one  noticed 
her. 

Annie  burst  into  tears  : 

"  My  dear."  said  the  mother  reprovingly ;  for  she 
looked  upon  crying  as  an  indulgence. 

"  I  feel  as  if  something  dreadful  were  going  to 
happen  ;  as  though  he  would  never  come  back," 
sobbed  the  girl. 

No  sooner  had  Mr.  Wallace  fairly  gone,  than  Annie 
Castlewood  had  a  caller — a  rare  event  within  the 
village  precincts.  It  was  a  tall  and  majestic  lady,  who 
had  superb  eyes  and  an  unquestionably  high-toned 
mien  ;  who  wore  a  dress  of  some  rich  gray  fabric 
made  in  a  stylish  mode. 

There  was  nothing  more  significant  than  "  Mrs. 
Williams"  on  her  card;  but  Annie  fell  deeply 
in  love  with  her  royal  appearance  and  her  gracious 
manner.  Moreover,  there  was  something  a  little 
odd  or  foreign  in  her  intonation — or  was  it  only 
an  unusual  perfection  of  pronunciation  ? — which  de 
lighted  the  girl's  unsophisticated  ear. 

Mrs.  Williams  had  come  to  see  if  Miss  Castlewood 
did  not  wish  to  take  lessons  on  the  piano-forte  :  she 
was  anxious  she  said,  to  form  a  music  class  in  Rest- 
Hampton.  Annie  had  no  instrument,  so  the  idea  was 
out  of  the  question.  She  was  dazzled  by  it  however, 
and  eagerly  said  she  would  beg  her  father  for  the 
long  promised  piano  "  when  he  went  to  New  York," 
a  thing  he  had  always  meant  to  do. 

"  Has  he  not  just  gone  ?"  questioned  the  lady. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  and  Annie's  blue  eyes  opened  wonder- 
in  gly. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  83 

"  I  thought  I  had  seen  a  gentleman  with  a  port 
manteau  start  from  here  as  I  came  up  the  street." 

"  That  was  Mr.  Wallace,"  and  foolish  Annie  felt 
the  scarcely  dried  tears  spring  to  her  eyes.  She 
could  not  understand  why  she  was  so  sad  about  Mr. 
Wallace's  absence  ;  or  why  she  would  have  minded  if 
he  never  returned  ;  but — 

Suddenly  the  young  girl  became  conscious  that  her 
visitor  was  looking  with  unpleasant  keenness  into  her 
face,  and  she  recovered  herself  instantly  with  some 
pride. 

"  Mr.  Wallace  is  your  foreign  friend  of  whom  I  have 
heard,  I  presume,"  she  said  sweetly,  adding  :  "  Has  he 
left  you  permanently  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  answered  Annie  ; "  he  will  be  back  this 
week." 

Still  the  lady's  questions  annoyed  her,  and  she  said 
with  less  warmth  : 

"  Will  you  not  allow  me  to  fetch  my  mother  !  She 
will  be  glad  to  see  you." 

But  the  visitor  had  found  out  what  she  came  to 
know  and  she  arose  saying  with  cmprcssemcnt, — 

"  No,  my  dear — I  will  not  trouble  Mrs.  Castlewood. 
I  am  sorry  about  the  piano.  But  at  least  I  am  glad 
to  have  met  you.  You  will  come  to  see  me  some 
times  ? " 

A  most  engaging  smile  beamed  upon  the  unsophisti 
cated  maiden,  who  was  quite  enchanted  with  the  lady's 
beauty  and  grace  ;  and  she  promised  readily. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Williams  returned.  A  new  sub 
terfuge  to  gain  some  intimacy  with  the  family  at  the 
Homestead  had  struck  her. 


84  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  Forgive  me,  my  dear  child,  for  coming  after  you 
again.  But,  after  I  reached  the  hotel,  I  was  haunted 
by  your  sweet  face — you  will  forgive  my  saying  it,— 
and  I  tried  to  think  of  some  expedient  that  would 
bring  you  to  me.  I  am  very  lonely,  my  dear,  a 
widow  and  childless — I  had  a  little  daughter  once  who 
died.  Don't  you  think  you  can  care  a  little  about 
me  ?  "  She  paused  gently,  and  Annie  blushed,  hold 
ing  her  head  down  like  the  little  country  girl  she  was. 

"  It  occurred  to  me,"  continued  the  lady,  who  had 
not  let  go  of  her  hand,  but  kept  stroking  the  pretty 
fingers  with  her  own  gloved  ones — "  that  you  might 
like  to  come  and  let  me  teach  you  how  to  draw  and 
paint  in  water-colors.  I  have  done  a  great  deal  of 
such  work  in  my  life,  and  found  it  a  real  pleasure. 
Would  you  like  it  ?  " 

Annie  assented  eagerly,  and  Mrs.  Williams  went 
on  : 

"  I  have  a  pleasant  little  sitting-room  at  the — the 
hotel,  and  you  could  come  to  me  every  morning  for  an 
hour.  She  smiled  with  winning  sweetness,  and  Annie 
found  herself  gazing  into  the  great  dark  eyes,  en 
tranced. 

"  I  will  speak  to  my  mother,  if  you  will  excuse  me," 
she  said,  running  out  of  the  room  and  springing  up 
the  stairs.  While  she  was  absent,  the  visitor  made  a 
keen  and  rapid  scrutiny  of  the  apartment ;  into  every 
crack  and  corner  she  peered,  but  found  nothing  of 
what  she  sought. 

"  Pshaw,"  she  muttered  fiercely ;  "there  is  no  trace 
of  him  here.  That  pink-and-white-faced  chick  has  the 
range  of  his  apartments  no  doubt, — I  will  get  it  all 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  85 

out  of  her,  though  ! — Great  God,"  she  cried,  making 
a  passionate  gesture  with  her  hands,  which  were 
locked  nervously  together  ;  "I  would  give  ten — twenty 
— years  of  my  life  to  spend  one  hour  there,  wherever 
his  presence  has  been." 

Annie  returned  with  her  mother,  who  met  the 
stranger  rather  chillingly,  and  was  not  disposed  to 
lend  her  sanction  to  the  plan.  She  considered  that 
her  daughter  was  too  easily  led  away  by  an  impulse. 

But  Annie  warmed  towards  the  notion,  and  urged 
her  long-standing  desire  to  study  painting  and  draw 
ing. 

"  What  are  thy  terms  ?  "  asked  the  little  Yankee 
woman  with  characteristic  watchfulness  of  being 
taken  in. 

Mrs.  Williams  had  evidently  not  considered  that 
phase  of  the  matter ;  but  hers  was  a  well-schooled  face 
that  showed  no  surprise.  She  mentioned  a  very 
modest  sum,  and  it  was  finally  arranged  that  Annie 
should  go  each  morning  to  the  little  village  hotel. 

"  I  should  prefer  that  thee  came  here  to  instruct 
my  daughter,"  Mrs.  Castlewood  argued. 

"  I  would,  gladly,  madam  ;  but  I  am  unable  to  walk 
any  distance,"  the  lady  hastened  to  explain,  and  the 
other  consented,  reluctantly. 

Annie  soon  became  charmed  with  her  pursuit,  and 
found  her  instructor  both  talented  and  fascinating. 
She  told  the  village  maiden  many  things  which 
delighted  her  and  seemed  not  unlike  the  romantic 
climaxes  of  a  novel,  while  in  reality  they  were — or 
professed  to  be — pages  from  the  handsome  widow's 
own  experience.  Annie  wondered  how  one  person 


86  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

could  possibly  be  the  heroine  of  so  many  romantic 
situations.  Moreover,  she  gave  a  good  deal  of  in 
formation,  unbeknown  to  herself,  which  the  dark-eyed 
lady  desired  to  obtain. 

Usually,  Annie  had  little  to  say  about  Mr.  Wallace 
to  any  one  ;  but  this  charming  new  friend  had  such  a 
frank  way  of  claiming  confidence  in  return  for  pro 
fessions  of  ingenuousness,  that  the  conversation 
generally  tended  upon  the  perfections  of  the  one  wholly 
interesting  person  whom  the  girl  knew.  With  her 
innocent  face  bent  over  her  drawing,  Annie  Castle- 
wood  never  saw  the  sinister  looks  of  hatred,  or  some 
other  passion,  dart  from  the  black  eyes,  always  drooped 
when  she  lifted  her  head  to  meet  them. 

Mrs.  Williams  made  a  great  pet  of  her  pupil ;  and 
finally  begged  her  sentimentally  to  wear,  for  her  sake, 
a  little  ring  which  she  drew  with  some  difficulty  from 
her  own  finger  and  placed  upon  Annie's. 

It  was  a  tiny  serpent,  coiled  several  times  about 
the  finger,  encrusted  with  diamonds,  and  having 
emeralds  for  eyes. 

That  night  Mr.  Wallace  returned. 

The  next  morning,  Annie  did  not  carry  her  books 
as  usual  to  the  sitting-room  ;  and  when  he  looked  up 
from  his  writing  to  ask  after  her,  the  mother  told  him 
briefly  the  story  of  Mrs.  Williams  and  the  drawing 
lessons. 

He  listened  politely,  and  then  returned,  without 
comment,  to  his  occupations.  It  is  apart  of  "  the  irony 
of  fate,"  that  we  can  listen  calmly  to  something  the 
purport  of  which  will  presently  go  as  a  dagger  to  our 
heart. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  87 

When  Annie  came  in,  flushed  from  the  pleasure  of 
her  lesson  and  from  the  exercise  of  her  walk,  she  was 
told  that  Mr.  Wallace  had  asked  for  her. 

"Mother,  may  I  go  up  and  knock  at  his  study- 
door  ?  "  she  asked,  and  gained  the  rare  permission. 
Martha  Castlewood  was  not  sorry  to  encourage  the 
intimacy  between  her  lodger  and  daughter,  but  she 
was  judicious. 

Annie's  timid  knock  was  answered  in  the  kind 
friendly  voice  she  loved  so  well. — 

"  Come  in  Nancy." 

He  looked  at  her  almost  affectionately,  and  placed  a 
chair  for  her  near  his  own. 

"  And  now  tell  me  about  your  drawing  and  painting. 

"  Oh,  I  have  only  just  begun,"  she  answered  blushing, 
and  beginning  to  look  through  her  drawing-book  for 
the  little  sketch  she  was  at  work  upon.  Her  naive 
emphasis  always  amused  her  friend. 

"  It  isn't  only  the  lessons,"  she  added.  "  O  Mr. 
Wallace !  the  lady  who  teaches  me  is  so  beautiful  and 
so  noble  !  " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  she  is  noble  ?  "  he  was 
smiling  indulgently  upon  her  sweet  impulsiveness. 

"  Oh  !  I  know  it !  The  way  she  carries  her  head, 
and  turns  her  neck  !  why,  she  is  like  a  princess.  " 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  a  princess,  Annie  ?  "  Mr. 
Wallace  was  laughing  heartily. 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Annie,  something  abashed, 
"but  I  know  how  a  princess  ougJit  to  look.  She  should 
be  tall,  and  stately,  and  imperious.  She  should  have 
a  grand  air,  and  a  majestic  walk  like  '' 

"  Like  the  heroine  in  a  three-volume  novel,  eh  ? " 


88  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  I  was  going  to  say  '  like  Mrs.  Williams,"  Annie 
answered,  smiling  merrily,  and  looking  up  with  uncon 
scious  coquetry  in  her  eyes  ;  "  but  the  name  struck 
me  as  a  little  out  of  keeping." 

"  It  is  not  very  impressive,  that  is  true;  but  majestic 
people  cannot  always  have  magnificent  names,  any 
more  than  the  daughters  of  her  majesty  Queen 
Victoria  are  likely  to  resemble  your  traditional 
princess.  Doubtless  Mrs.  William's  husband  is  a  pain 
fully  practical  and  commonplace  individual." 

"  She  hasn't  any  husband,  she  is  a  widow." 

"Ah,  indeed  !  That  is  immensely  interesting.  To 
be  romantic  a  woman  must  always  be  a  widow,  both 
young  and  beautiful." 

"  Now  you  are  making  fun  of  her,"  Annie  said, 
trying  to  look  offended. 

And  so  the  banter,  with  which  Mr.  Wallace  delighted 
to  indulge  himself,  at  the  expense  of  the  pretty  and 
innocent  young  girls  who  came  in  his  way,  ran  on, 
until  Annie  drew  her  finger  from  the  book  where  she 
had  placed  it  to  mark  her  drawing. 

Then  he  leaned  forward  with  a  look  she  did  not 
see, — 

"  My  child,  what  have  you  there  ?  " 

There  was  nothing  remarkable  in  the  tone  or 
manner,  and  Annie  did  not  perceive  how  ashy  pale 
he  grew  ;  but  at  that  instant,  John  Wallace's  heart  had 
ceased  to  beat  for  an  instant. 

Annie  began  to  chatter  about  her  friend,  her  gentle 
ness  and  goodness,  and  the  friendship  she  had  prof 
fered  in  the  pledge  of  the  ring.  Mr.  Wallace  paused 
long  enough  for  her  to  pass  over  the  ring,  and  dilate 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  89 

upon  the  lady's  charming  accent.  Then  he  spoke 
quietly. 

"  Would  your  mother  wish  you  to  accept  a  ring 
from  a  stranger,  Annie  ?  " 

That  was  all  he  said. 

Annie  colored.  Her  mother  had  not  seen  the  ring. 
Somehow,  she  often  felt  beforehand  her  mother's  dis 
approval  of  certain  things,  and  this  intimacy  did  not 
altogether  recommend  itself  to  her  from  the  maternal 
standpoint.  There  was  nothing  hypocritical  about 
the  young  girl ;  but  she  simply  delayed  her  confidences. 

"  I  never  thought  of  it  being  a  gift"  she  stammered- 
"  It  is  only  a  token  of  regard,  don't  you  see  ?  I  do  not 
mean  to  keep  it.  I  shall  only  wear  it." 

"  If  I  were  you,  I  should  not  wear  it." 

Annie  looked  distressed, — 

"  What  shall  I  say !  How  shall  I  return  it  without 
seeming  to  thrust  her  friendship  back  upon  her  !  " 

Mr.  Wallace  could  not  suggest  that  the  friendship 
was  a  pretense. 

"  Suppose,"  said  he,  rising,  "  you  say  to  Mrs.  Will 
iams  that  Mr.  Wallace  asked  you  to  rettirn  it.  " 

Annie  wondered.  She  could  not  see  her  com 
panion's  face,  and  she  was  too  much  pre-occupied  to 
notice  any  peculiarity  in  his  manner.  But  that  her 
hero  should  condescend  to  express  an  opinion  about  her 
new  friend's  action  was  something  unparallelled. 

"  How  much  longer  will  you  take  these  lessons  ;  " 
he  inquired,  after  he  had  asked  her  to  describe  the 
lady's  appearance,  listening  attentively  meanwhile. 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir.  I  thought  you  would  be  pleased 
that  I  should  learn  all  I  can  '' 


go  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

Annie  paused  :  she  felt  aggrieved.  Also,  she  was 
disappointed  ;  for  there  is  nothing  so  delightful  to 
the  soul  of  a  very  young  girl  as  the  friendship  of  an 
older  woman  who  is  beautiful  and  fascinating,  espe 
cially  if  that  friendship  is  delicately  perfumed  with 
fine  flattery. 

"  Well — well  "  said  the  other  gently,  seeing  her 
crestfallen  look;  "go  on  with  your  painting.  Only 
I  should  not  wear  the  ring  if  I  were  in  your  place." 

When  the  young  girl  had  gone,  and  for  an  hour 
or  two  after,  the  lonely  man  paced  his  rooms — as 
tounded,  appalled,  at  the  thoughts  which  threatened 
him.  Not  many  nights  before,  the  woman  who  had 
wellnigh  bewitched  him  upon  the  beach,  had  spent 
the  hours  just  so,  pacing  like  some  wild  creature,  the 
narrow  limits  of  her  rooms.  The  difference  was,  that 
her  step  was  stealthy  and  leopard-like,  so  that  the  un 
conscious  sleeper  beneath  heard  not  a  sound  of  that 
sinister  rustle,  while  Mr.  Wallace's  tread  was  slow 
and  measured  and  steady.  Then  she  had  made  her 
resolve. 

"  Could  it  be  possible  ?  "  he  muttered  over  and  over. 
Had  the  ghost  of  his  past  dared  to  pursue  him  ?  was 
the  figure  in  gray  that  flitted  across  his  disturbed 
imagination  on  the  sea  shore  a  reality  ?  Had  she 
planned  to  tempt  him  anew,  or  did  she  come  to 
contaminate  the  pure  creature  who  believed  in  him  ? 
—  to  destroy  Annie  Castlewood's  peace  and  innocence? 
was  the  child  to  be  doomed  because  her  life  touched 
his  ?  But  what  had  induced  his  tormentor  to  flaunt 
that  trinket — his  own  once  gift — before  his  eyes  ? 


THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE.       9 1 

Doubtless  she  dared  not  seek  him  out ;  but  it  was  a 
challenge  that  said  to  him, — "  Come,  face  me." 

At  least  he  would  accept.  John  Wallace  was  not  a 
coward. 

"  I  shall  confront  her.  She  shall  not  escape  me," 
he  said  with  stern  lips  :  "  only  first  the  child  must  re 
turn  that  ring." 

All  that  day  and  the  next,  Mr.  Wallace  kept  the 
house.  The  thought  of  meeting  face  to  face  a  phan 
tom,  gave  him  a  feeling  of  suffocation.  But  the  idea 
of  being  pursued,  dogged,  hounded  in  secret,  was 
worse. 

The  next  morning  Annie  had  gone  again  to  her 
painting.  An  unpleasant  consciousness  was  upon 
her,  however,  and  the  lesson  was  not  very  brilliant. 
Mrs.  Williams  twitted  her  lovingly  upon  being  distraite, 
Finally,  when  she  could  postpone  her  departure  no 
longer,  she  offered  the  ring  to  its  owner,  having  held 
it  for  some  minutes  in  her  hand. 

"  What,"  said  that  lady  reproachfully  ;  "  you  are 
tired  of  my  attachment  so  soon  ? " 

"  Oh  no?  cried  Annie  distressed  ;  "  but  " — she 
hesitated  :  "  Mr.  Wallace  asked  me  to  return  it  to 
you." 

She  was  really  startled  at  the  lightning  flash  which 
darted  from  her  friend's  brilliant  eyes.  Mrs.  Williams 
at  that  moment  perceived  that  she  was  checkmated  ; 
moreover,  she  had  a  suspicion  that  she  was  also  be 
trayed.  Still,  she  controlled  herself  instantly,  being 
well-used  to  dissimulation,  and  said  calmly, — 

"  And  who  is  this  Mr.  Wallace  ?  " 

"  He  is  an  English   gentleman  who  lives  with  us," 


92  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

said  Annie.  "  I  thought  you  knew  ? "  she  added, 
questioningly. 

"Is  he  a  relative?"  still  the  sinister  fire  gleamed 
beneath  the  lady's  eyelids.  She  looked  not  unlike 
an  enraged  wild  beast,  that  is  beautiful  in  spite  of  its 
subtle  fury.  "  You  know  all  about  him,  I  suppose," 
she  added  sneeringly. 

"  No,  he  came  to  us  a  stranger,  I  think." 

"That  is  curious.  I  wonder,"  mused  the  lady 
as  if  to  herself,  "  if  he  can  be  an  impostor — or  a 
criminal " 

"  Mrs.  Williams  ! "  cried  Annie  starting  forward 
with  her  face  ablaze,  "  you  must  not  say  such  a  thing 
as  that :  Mr.  Wallace  is  a  friend — of  my  father's." 

"  And  yours  ?  Is  it  not  so,  Mignon  ?  " 

There  was  something  so  insinuating  in  the  speech 
that  Annie  drew  back  uncomfortable : 

"  Yes — of  mine,  also,"  she  replied  simply. 

"  You  are  a  wonderful  child,  Annie,"  the  lady  mur 
mured  after  watching  her  stealthily  for  a  few  seconds  .- 

"  You  ought  to  be  very  proud  of  the  friendship  of 
such  a  man.  Do  you  not  know  that  he  is  a  great  in 
tellectual  light — a  person  of  high  degree " 

Annie  was  looking  in  undisguised  amazement,  and 
the  lady  stopt  abruptly. 

"  You  know  him  then,  Mrs.  Williams  ?  " 

"  Only  by  what  you  have  told  me,"  she  answered 
calmly,  changing,  for  some  reason,  her  tactics  :  "  He 
is  a  Scotchman,  I  think  you  said  ? " 

"  An  Englishman,"  corrected  Annie. 

"Ah  ? — the  name  is  quite  Scotch  ;  you  know  that." 

If   all  these  suggestions  were  intended  to  convey 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  93 

doubts  to  Annie  Castlewood's  mind,  they  were  entirely 
unheeded.  Her  trust  in  Mr.  Wallace  could  not  be  shak 
en.  Moreover,  Mrs.  William's  manner  perplexed  her. 
She  seemed  to  scintillate  with  a  dangerous  fire  that 
made  her  appearance  nervous  and  her  laugh  hysterical. 

Annie  turned  to  leave. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said,  looking  wistfully  at  the  hand 
some  and  imperious  face,  which  was  more  dazzling 
than  usual  with  its  suppressed  passion.  She  was  op 
pressed  with  a  thought  that  the  new  interest  she  had 
found  was  closing  against  her.  And  to  the  proscribed 
circle  of  village  life,  a  new  interest  was  a  boon. 

That  afternoon,  Mr.  Wallace  and  Andrews  resumed 
their  accustomed  walk. 

He  was  gravitating  towards  a,  to  him,  tremendous 
climax  or  denouement :  and  the  calmness  of  the  Rest- 
Hampton  routine  smiled  in  his  face  with  that  mock 
interest  which  only  nature  and  the  unconsciousness 
of  friends  can  oppose  to  the  violence  of  our  own  con 
cealed  emotions. 

All  that  came  of  the  impression  which  Mrs.  Wil 
liams  made  upon  Annie  Castlewood  was  that  the  girl 
asked  suddenly  one  day, — 

"Aren't  you  an  Englishman,  Mr.  Wallace?"  and 
he  had  answered  simply,— 

"  No  I  am  Scotch-born." 

She  had  wondered  all  day  at  Mrs.  William's  percep 
tion,  but,  somehow,  she  never  told  it.  Unconsciously, 
she,  too,  was  learning  reticence. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IN    A    GRAVEYARD. 

"  //  is  a  thorny  question  and  a  tale 
Hard  to  believe,  but  not  impossible 
Here  has  a  blot  surprised  the  social  blank, — • 
Whether  through  favor,  feebleness,  or  fault 
No  matter — leprosy  has  touched  our  robe." 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

TRUTH  is  sometimes  like  fiction,  in  that  a  life  often 
pauses  in  its  smooth  career,  coming  into  sudden  col 
lision  with  an  object  or  a  person  totally  unlocked  for 
and  not  to  be  accounted  for  in  the  ordinary  run  of 
events. 

Walking  dreamily  along  the  pleasant  highway,  that 
evening  towards  dusk,  Mr.  Wallace  raised  his  head 
without  an  apparent  cause  ; — unless  those  inexplicable 
impulses  called  attractions  may  be  named  as  reasons 
for  action.  His  eyes  did  not  rove  absently,  as  is 
usually  the  way  with  a  person  in  motion  who  looks  up 
without  a  motive.  Clearly,  whatever  influence  had 
called  outward  his  introspective  gaze,  the  softness 
of  the  landscape  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

He  was  walking  towards  the  south  burying-ground, 
and  straight  as  an  arrow  to  its  mark  his  glance  shot 
on  ahead,  and  fastened  for  an  instant  upon  a  scarcely 
discernible  shape  at  the  far  end  of  the  street. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  95 

It  was  a  tall,  slender  figure  that  seemed  to  flit 
rapidly  along  with  a  certain  indefiniteness  of  purpose  ; 
for  it  had  crossed  several  times  from  one  side  of  the 
road  to  the  other,  like  a  startled  creature  who  was  in 
doubt  of  the  way.  It  was  making  one  of  those  sud 
den  changes  of  direction  when  the  scholar's  glance 
marked  its  outline.  Perhaps  there  was  a  backward 
glance  in  response  ;  for  the  figure  hesitated  a  moment, 
and  then  seemed  to  plunge  into  the  hollow  from  which 
the  hillside  graveyard  sloped  gently  up. 

"  Andrews,"  said  Mr.  Wallace,  turning  calmly  to  his 
companion,  who  was  absorbed  in  speculating  about  a 
flock  of  birds,  "  you  may  return.  I  shall  finish  my  walk 
alone." 

After  taking  a  few  steps  forward  h.e  paused  by  the 
roadside,  looking  off  towards  the  unseen  but  never- 
forgotten  sea.  It  may  be  that,  in  spite  of  his  grand 
and  silent  mien,  he  was  endeavoring  to  collect  his 
faculties  for  a  strange  encounter. 

"  Lord  bless  him,"  muttered  Andrews  to  himself, 
catching  a  last  glimpse  of  him  still  standing  there,  as 
he  crossed  to  have  a  chat  with  Ben  Adams,  leaning 
idly  over  his  fence,  the  day's  work  at  the  forge  being 
over. 

"  Your  pard's  a  mighty  queer  chap,"  volunteers  that 
direct  individual,  indicating  with  his  smudgy  thumb, 
the  thoughtful  figure  in  the  distance. 

"D'ye  think  so  ?  Perhaps  he  is,  if  'mighty  queer' 
means  too  good  for  this  world,"  says  Andrews. 

"  Heow  be  he  better'n  most  ? "  grunts  Ben,  his 
mind  not  capable  of  nice  distinctions. 

"  Any  fool  but  you  could   see  how  he's  better  than 


96  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

the  people  around  here,"  cries  the  valet  who  is  invari 
ably  riled  by  the  blacksmith's  obtuseness. 

"  Wall,  now — what  wages  do  he  pay  ? "  Ben's  head 
is  on  one  side  in  an  aggravating  way. 

"  Dash  your  impudence,"  mutters  Andrews  sotto 
voce. 

He  would  have  liked  well  enough  to  parade  before 
the  lubber's  eyes  what  he  knew  would  have  appeared 
to  him  an  enormous  compensation  ;  but  it  bordered 
too  closely  upon  his  master's  own  affairs  to  be  safe  in 
Ben's  dubious  keeping. 

"  He  pays  me  more  than  you  ever  got  your  fist 
around,"  says  he,  then  dropping  suddenly  to  Ben's  level, 
— "  I  say,  though,  who  is  that  spirited-looking  woman 
that's  come  to  the  hotel  ?  She's  powerful  handsome, 
but  lonesome,  like." 

Ben  shook  his  head.  His  curiosity  was  of  that  dull 
description  which  needs  to  be  actively  appealed  to  by 
a  present  demand,  and  like  his  other  mental  efforts, 
never  went  out  of  its  way  for  a  job.  Just  here,  Uncle 
Seth  came  ambling  up,  and  joined  in  the  blindman's 
holiday  palaver. 

"  Here's  'un  what  knows,"  remarked  Ben,  taking 
his  pipe  from  between  his  teeth  and  grinning,  "  he 
kin  tell  a  sight  more  'bout  folks  an  they  ever  knowed 
theirselves." 

"  What's  to  pay,  now,  gentlemen  ?  "  asks  the 
sprightly  octogenarian.  He  wore  queer  old  breeches 
and  a  long-tailed  coat  "all  buttoned  down  before." 
Moreover,  he  wore  the  old-school  manner  with  his  an 
cient  apparel,  both  of  which  he  cultivated  with  great 
assiduity. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  97 

"  I  was  asking,"  begins  Andrews  with  an  air  of 
patronage  which  he  could  not  help  bestowing  upon 

the  fossils  of  the  village "who  that  tall  female 

may  be  that's  turned  up  lately  at  Daggett's." 

"  That  ?  "  —Uncle  Seth  produced  with  a  flourish 
his  grandfather's  snuff-box,  and  took  a  friendly  pinch, 
which  he  did  not  appear  to  relish,  but  practised  to  be 
in  keeping  with  his  conception  of  a  fine  old-style 
gentleman. 

"That  is  another  mysterious  stranger,  Mr.  An 
drews." 

The  emphasis  was  so  marked,  and  the  significance 
of  his  nod  at  Andrews  was  so  obvious,  that  the  valet 
reddened  visibly,  but  made  a  pretence  of  unconscious 
ness.  Ben  roared.  It  will  be  seen  that  Andrews' 
path  had  a  thorn  now  and  then. 

"  Dash  them  both,"  he  thought,  but  only  said  : 

"  Mysterious,  is  she  ?  All  strangers  are  mysterious 
in  this  dead-and-gone-to-seed  place,  I  should  fancy. 
You  must  get  precious  tired  of  the  old  ways,  you  see." 

Ben  glared,  but  left  the  defence  of  his  people  in  the 
hands  of  Uncle  Seth's  wisdom,  which  spoke, — 

"  No — I'm  not  tired  of  'em.  The  folks  at  Rest- 
Hampton  is  considerable  of  a  study.  There's  a  great 
deal  in  human  nature,  Mr.  Andrews,  besides  mys 
teries." 

lie  cocks  one  eye  at  the  discomfited  valet,  who  is 
on  his  guard  by  this  time. 

"  What  brings  'em  here,  any  way  ?  "  grunts  Ben  un 
compromisingly.  "  Nobody  don't  want  'em." 

"  Who  ?  strangers  ? — oh,  ask  Mr.  Andrews,  he  may 


g8  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

know,"  and  Uncle  Seth  gives  Ben  a  sly  wink,  which 
it  is  needless  to  say,  is  lost  on  that  individual. 

"  They're  no  account,  only  to  upset  our  ways,"  he 
continues,  for  he  has  been  drinking,  and  is  therefore 
very  cross. 

"  What  a  lumbering  idiot  you  are,  Adams,"  cries 
Andrews  contemptuously.  "  If  you  had  half  a  notion 
about  improvement  and  that,  you'd  see  that  Mr.  Wal 
lace  has  done  more  to  help  this  dead-and-rotten  town 
up  a  bit,  than  all  your  old  dunderhead  villagers  put 
together.  Your  ways,  indeed  !  "  with  terrible  scorn. 
"  I'd  like  to  know  what  ways  you've  got,  except  to 
stand  still  and  let  the  world  get  ahead  of  you." 

Ben  took  his  pipe  slowly  from  his  mouth,  and  spat 
with  great  deliberation  in  dangerous  proximity  to  An 
drews'  dapper  boots,  which  made  that  person  skip  to 
one  side  with  his  favorite  "  dash  you "  under  his 
breath. 

"  That's  just  what  we  don't  want— 'improvin'." 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Ben,"  puts  in  the  elderly  oracle,  who 
feels  that  his  opinion  is  law  in  the  village,  and  of 
weight  even  with  persons  of  the  surly  smith's  type  ; 
"  Let  us  be  just,  Mr.  Ben.  I  admit  that  this  Mr. 
Wallace  has  imparted  many  ideas  which  have  been  of 
advantage  to  our  society  " 

"  Can  he  tell  me  a  better  way  to  shoe  a  horse  or 
draw  on  a  tire  ? "  interrupts  Ben  angrily,  "  what  I 
want  is  to  be  let  alone  ;"  and  a  blow  from  his  sledge 
hammer  fist  makes  the  rickety  fence  totter. 

"  There  is  no  use  talking  to  such  a  dashed,  whiskey- 
soaked  old  grampus,"  mutters  Andrews,  going  off  in 
a  rage,  being  joined  by  the  wise  man  of  the  village. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  gg 

"  Don't  mind  Benjamin,  Mr.  Andrews,"  says  the  foS- 
sil  condescendingly,  "  he  is  a  person  of  very  limited 
intelleck.  Now  /  like  the  addition  of  strangers  to  our 
more  select  circles  " — for  Uncle  Seth  belonged  to  an 
ancient  family,  (quite  extinct  excepting  himself  and 
several  dozens  of  gravestones),  and  was  admitted  with 
the  freedom  of  country  tolerance,  into  the  houses  of 
what  Rest-Hampton  called  the  best  society. 

"  I  consider,"  he  proceeds, — snuff-box  in  hand  for 
its  effect, — "  that  the  presence  of  so  fine  a  scholard 
man  among  us  is  a  genuine  benefit ;  and  I  hope,"  eye 
ing  his  companion  sidewise,  "  that  he  is  going  to  re 
main  up  to  the  squire's  ultimously  ?  " 

The  rising  inflexion  at  the  end  of  this  sentence  was 
lost  upon  Mr.  Andrews,  who  returned  to  the  original 
topic  of  discussion. 

"  But  the  other  stranger,  Mr.  Seth — the  lady. 
Come  now,  a  mysterious  lady  ought  to  interest  a  gay 
bachelor,  like  yourself."  Andrews  looked  prodi 
giously  knowing,  and  the  old  fogy  smirked  in  a  way 
that  nearly  made  the  other  explode  with  suppressed 
laughter. 

"  O  don't,  now,  Mr.  Andrews  !  My  time  for  encour 
aging  the  ladies  is  over.  I  used  to  fancy  them,  once. 
There  was  Betsey  Price,  now,  Josiah  Hatherton's  wife 
as  is — she  and  I  took  a  great  shine  to  each  other. 
But  Lud,  sir,  the  girls  always  snapped  so  quick,  I  had 
to  hold  back — and  Hatherton  got  ahead  of  me  some 
way.  But  it's  just  as  well,"  pursued  the  old  gentle 
man  airily.  "  Marriage  is  a  vexin'  state,  Mr.  An 
drews.  A  woman  now,  has  no  respeck  for  ancient 
customs,  and  always  wants  a  man  to  change  the  style 


I0o  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

of  his  neckcloth."  This  was  said  to  attract  the  valet's 
attention  to  that  superannuated  article  of  attire. 
He  felt  called  upon  to  compliment  the  wearer  on  its 
good  form,  which  led  to  such  a  dissertation  upon  the 
sanctity  and  inviolability  of  obsolete  fashions,  that 
they  had  reached  the  door  of  the  little  post-office  be 
fore  he  had  more  than  half  got  through.  In  parting, 
Uncle  Seth  dropped  his  voice  to  a  sepulchral  whis 
per, — 

"  These  garments,  Mr.  Andrews,  is  the  secret  of  my 
influence  in  this  community.  They  impart  to  my 
appearance  the  venerableness  and  dignity  that  I  de 
sire  to  cultiwate.  This  coat  was  my  grandfather's, 
likewise,  these  breeches.  In  the  eyes  of  my  fellow 
citizens,  Mr.  Andrews,  I  represent  my  grandfather, 
who  was  a  great  scholard." 

By  this  time,  Andrews,  who  felt  himself  consider 
ably  bored  with  the  history  of  a  man  who  aped  his 
grandfather,  nodded  a  good-day,  and  disappeared  in 
search  of  livelier  companionship  at  the  little  Inn. 
His  time  hung  rather  heavily  on  his  hands,  and  it 
was  a  constant  source  of  regret  that  his  master  had 
no  expensive  luxuries  such  as  horses,  and  hunting 
gear  for  him  to  take  pride  in. 

"  What  a  pity  that  he  doesn't  hunt,"  he  mused. 
"  Though  what  there  is  to  find  in  this  God-forsaken 
place  I  couldn't  say — unless  it  is  the  natives !  " 

Andrews,  it  will  be  seen,  felt  somewhat  belligerent 
towards  the  place  and  people  about  him.  He  mused 
on  : 

"  Or  if  he  would  race,  for  instance — only  it  would 
have  to  be  with  plough  horses  and  meeting-house 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  IOi 

hacks.  Oh,  dear  !  "  he  groaned,  "  if  people  here 
only  knew  enough  to  have  a  bit  of  running  now 
and  then,  one  might  stand  the  rest.  Fine  horses,  too, 
those  of  Squire  Castlewood's.  And  the  Ley's  and 
the  Cruddle's  !  To  think  of  their  dawdling  along  at 
that  churchyard  gait!  It's  as  bad  as  a  funeral  to  see 
them.  Dash'd,  but  I  wish  I  had  a  couple  of  thorough 
breds  !  "  and  Andrews  sighed  heavily  over  his  pot  of 
ale. 

But  what  has  become  of  Mr.  Wallace,  whom  we 
left  pausing  meditatively  by  the  green  roadway  ? 

The  shadows  of  evening  are  gathering  about  him 
as  he  stands  with  his  noble  head  bared  to  the  peace 
fully  falling  twilight,  and  the  gathering  dew.  Then — 
Andrews  and  the  old  postman  having  strolled  up  the 
street,  and  Ben  Adams  lounged  back  to  the  shadow  of 
his  doorway, — he  covers  his  head  and  walks  steadily 
forward.  He  has  the  suddenly  aroused  look  of  a  man 
alert  for  a  purpose.  Presently  he  reaches  the  South- 
end  burying-ground,  and  passes  over  the  stile  and 
among  the  crumbling  old  tombstones.  He  does  not 
halt  to  mark  the  soft  gloom  of  the  spot,  but  with  a 
keen  glance  sweeps  the  enclosure,  and  then  comes, 
with  a  few  rapid  steps,  face  to  face  with  the  gray 
shape  that  starts  up,  stretches  out  a  trembling  arm, 
and  then  shrinks  back. 

The  power  which  this  woman  seemed  to  have  held 
over  his  unconsciousness  utterly  forsakes  her,  when 
confronted  with  the  man  himself. 

The  two  figures  face  one  another  with  a  long,  chill, 
unrelenting  gaze,  like  two  Fates  who  have  crossed 
each  others'  paths.  Not  a  vestige  of  his  accustomed 


I02  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

gentleness  is  in  John  Wallace's  face  or  voice  when  he 
speaks,  which  he  does  in  a  hard,  dry  tone  : 

"  Why  did  you  follow  me  ? " 

"  I  was  driven  to  do  it,"  answered  the  other  Fate,  in 
a  voice  of  forced  coldness  that  matched  his  own. 

"  What  do  you  expect  to  gain  ?  " 

"  Nothing — only  to  be  near  you." 

"  It  was  to  be  rid  of  you  that  I  have  given  up  my 
home,  my  position,  my  kindred,  my  fortune." 

The  other  bowed  her  head  upon  her  hands  and 
moaned,  rocking  to  and  fro. 

"  I  ask  again,  what  do  you  expect  to  come  of  this 
pursuit  ?  " 

"  Nothing — nothing  " — moaned  the  shape. 

"  Then  go  back  to  where  you  came  from.  Go  back 
and  hide  in  your  unhappy  bosom  that  you  ever 
tracked  me  here."  He  stood  with  his  long  arm  out 
stretched,  and  his  thin  hand  pointing  towards  the  sea, 
an  awful  embodiment  of  the  unrelenting  destiny  that 
was  to  overwhelm  that  other  destiny.  She  raised  her 
head,  and  once  more  confronted  him. 

"  I cannot !  It  has  been  a  slow  death  ever  since 

—I  seem — to  have  died  and  been  buried — and  this  is 
my  unlaid  ghost  that  has  followed  you." 

Her  voice  was  choked  and  terrified,  his  was  stern 
and  calm  : 

"  Go  back  to  your  grave,  then.  Did  you  think  you 
could  tempt  me — even  if  you  came  from  the  dead  ?  " 

She  moaned  again,  and  wrung  her  hands, — 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  tempt  you  :  only  to  see  you." 

"  You  shall  not  see  me.  I  will  escape  from  you. 
Unless  you  give  up  this  pursuit,  we  shall  be  wanderers 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  103 

over  the  earth — you  seeking,  I  evading ;  I,  a  phantom, 
you,  a  shadow.  It  is  decreed." 

"  Oh,"  she  moaned,  twisting  her  fingers  together  in 
anguish,  "  you  are  hard  still.  Cold  and  hard — the 
same." 

"  The  same,"  he  echoed  drearily. 

"  Are  you  still  a  maniac  !  "  she  cried,  a  sharp  terror 
vibrating  in  her  unearthly  voice  :  "  Is  the  same  madness 
still  upon  you,  that  you  cast  out  happiness — and  me  ? 
What  harm  that  I  have  done  or  could  do  is  deserving 
of  an  eternal  retribution  like  this  ?  " 

"Sin." 

Only  one  word  ;  but  it  had  a  long  muffled  rever 
beration,  that  seemed  to  arise  from  the  deserted 
graves  at  their  feet  and  mock  them.  She  covered  her 
face  again  and  swayed  like  one  in  bodily  torment. 

"  I  never  sinned  !  "  broke  from  the  shuddering  lips, 
"  Was  it  a  sin  to  love — to  long  "- 

"  It  was  a  sin." 

If  a  sound  from  the  darkening  heavens  had  smote 
upon  her,  levelling  her  to  the  earth,  the  figure  could 
not  have  cowered  to  the  ground  in  greater  terror  of 
him  who  stood  and  accused  her. 

"  What  must  I  do  ? "  she  wailed,  stretching  her 
arms  upward,  and  casting  her  terrified  gaze  upon  his 
face,  its  sternness  fixed  upon  her  like  a  marble  mask. 
All  else  seemed  to  fade  and  melt  into  obscurity  but 
that  one  cold,  white  face  :  "  what  must  I  do  ?  " 

"  Go — and  repent." 

The  woman  sprang  to  her  feet.  A  new  passion 
seemed  to  sweep  over  her  terror  and  her  abasement. 

"Who  arejtfft,"  she  cried,  "that  you   dare  stand 


104  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

there  like  an  avenging  angel ! — were  you  never  hu 
man  ?  had  you  no  weakness." 

"  I  have  been  tempted,"  came  more  gently  from  the 
white  set  lips,  "  but  I  was  kept  from  falling.  And  yet 
I  must  shrive  my  soul  from  the  memory  of  what  has 
been.  Not  for  myself,  it  is  for  you  that  I  must 
repent !  I  have  not  sinned,  excepting  that  the  accursed 
tie  which  binds  us  has  made  me  a  beholder  of  your 
sin.  I  could  not  betray  you,  and  so  my  life  is  one 

long  penance  ! It  is  I — I — who  must  forever 

make  atonement  for  the  secrets  of  your  life,  woman  ! 
I  have  renounced  all — all.  I  must  shrive  my  soul." 

Something  gurgled  in  the  throat  of  the  man,  and  a 
faint  red  stain  came  upon  his  lips,  and  even  tinged  the 
front  of  his  garments.  He  caught  hold  of  a  tall  slab, 
as  though  he  felt  dizzy,  and  needed  support. 

The  cadence  of  that  broken  sentence  had  been  in 
his  own  natural  voice,  its  pathos  making  still  lovelier 
its  mellow  tone.  It  seemed  to  smite  anew  the  broken 
chords  of  the  woman's  heart  ;  for  she  flung  herself 
towards  him,  clasping  his  arm  with  her  passionate 
hands  and  sobbing, — 

"  Be  merciful  to  me,  Love  !  Don't  drive  me  away  ! 
I  will  never  speak  to  you  or  seem  to  see  you !  Only 
let  me  be  near  you  "- 

His  grasp  was  like  steel,  as  he  unfastened  her  hands 
and  tore  himself  from  her  embrace. 

"  My  God  !  "  burst  from  him,  with  an  echo  of  the 
terror  that  had  possessed  her. — "  After  all  my  ex 
piation,  has  it  come  to  this  ?  " 

She  hung  upon  his  accents,  uncertain  if  he  were 
tempted,  or  if  he  scorned  her. 


TH»  SHA  DOW  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE.  105 

"  Are  you  mad  ?  "  he  panted.  "  Do  you  think  I 
could  live,  and  breathe  the  same  air  with  you  ? " 

He  seemed  to  totter,  and  fell  rather  than  sat  upon 
one  of  the  neighboring  horizontal  slabs,  pressing  his 
hands  to  his  head.  The  movement  struck  upon  that 
pity  never  wholly  crushed  in  a  woman's  nature,  how 
ever  distorted  and  torn. 

"  Oh,"  she  moaned,  "  do  you  suffer — you  ?  And 
you  are  not  hard  ?  You  feel  ?  " 

She  fell  upon  her  knees,  and  began  stroking  the 
relaxed  hands  and  the  drawn  face,  over  which  she 
could  detect  a  deadly  pallor,  even  at  that  late  hour. 

John  Wallace  struggled  to  his  feet  and  cast  her  off ; 
but  not  in  anger  ;  for  he  stood  gazing  at  her  with  an 
infinite  answering  pity.  They  were  no  longer  two 
Fates,  but  two  palpitating  human  beings  who  had 
somehow  fatally  ruined  each  other's  lives.  Their  as 
pect,  at  this  moment,  was  so  startlingly  similar,  that 
any  one  who  saw  would  have  named  them  brother  and 
sister. 

"  Yes,  I,  too,  surfer.  Can  the  past  be  undone  or  for 
gotten  ?  When  I  cease  to  suffer,  I  shall  have  expiated- 
I  shall  be  lying  asleep  among  these  mossy  stones — 
unless  you  drive  me  forth  to  be  an  exile,  even  from 
this  lonely  corner  of  the  world." 

"Not  here" — she  sobbed,  though  her  eyes  were 
tearless,  "  not  here  !  not  forever  !  Some  time  you  will 
return  ?  " 

"  Never.  This  is  my  home, — unless,  I  repeat,  you 
stay  here  to  drive  me  again  into  the  homeless  world." 

"  No — oh,  no  !  Only  say  you  do  not  hate  me  ;  and 
I  will  <<o  back — <ro  back." 


I06  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  When  will  you  go  ? '' 

"  To-morrow." 

"  Will  you  swear  to  me  never  to  trouble  me  again  ! 
Never  to  seek  for  me  ?  Never  to  follow  me  with  a 
thought  ? " 

"  I  swear,"  she  articulated,  while  for  her  the  tomb 
stones,  the  earth,  the  sky,  seemed  slowly  to  revolve 
about  her  head. 

"Then,  I  do  not  hate  you,  I  " he  broke  off — and 

stood  regarding  her  with  a  fixed  intensity,  which  she  re 
turned  with  passionate  fervor.  It  had  grown  so  dark 
that  they  felt  rather  than  saw,  each  other's  looks. 

"  One  thing  more,"  she  implored,  creeping  nearer  to 
him,  and  groping  to  reach  his  hand,  or  his  arm, — any 
thing  in  that  slowly  reeling  world  : — "  You  must  write 
to  me.  I  cannot  keep  my  oath  unless  you  write  to 
me." 

"  Then  I  will  write." 

A  silence  followed.  The  world  was  beginning  to 
reel  faster,  and  only  the  woman's  will  kept  her  con 
scious.  Suddenly  she  started  forward  with  a  smoth 
ered  cry  :  for  the  other  figure  seemed  to  turn  away 
as  though  in  that  look  he  had  taken  his  last  farewell. 

"  Oh  !  you  are  not  going  that  way !  You  will  say 
good-by  to  me  !  " 

He  paused,  but  did  not  come  towards  her.  In  the 
darkness,  and  with  the  earth  reeling  about  her,  she 
could  not  find  him  with  her  groping  hands. 

"  Good-by." 

"  Nothing  more — nothing  tenderer  ?  Oh  love  !  " 

She  flung  out  her  arms  with  a  supplicating  gesture. 

Her  utterance  was  agonized  pleading.     She  stum- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  xo; 

bled  over  the  graves,  for  he  seemed   to  recede  from 
her. 

"  No  "  he  answered  solemnly  :  "  nothing  tenderer  : " 
and  his  voice  came  to  her  as  from  a  great  distance. 

He  receded  more  and  more  from  her  straining 
gaze  that  sought  to  penetrate  the  uncertain  gloaming, 
and  to  steady  the  reeling  earth. 

"  Love,"  she  called  again,  "  Love — O  Love  ! "  Her 
voice  was  only  a  whisper  ;  but  she  did  not  know  it- 
She  was  staggering  about  like  a  besotted  creature  ; 
but  she  did  not  know  it. 

All  she  knew  was  that  he  had  gone.  Had  he  van 
ished  into  the  mist  ?  Had  he  sunk  into  the  ground  ? 
or  had  the  darkness  only  covered  him  from  her  gaze  ? 
Then  the  rocking  of  the  elements  about  her  grew 
palpable.  Shefell  prone  upon  a  dew-drenched  mound, 
and  lay  for  hours  in  the  deepening  night — a  crushed 
and  dishevelled  creature. 

At  first  she  moaned,  and  moaned. 

"Not  that  way!  Come  back — for  an  instant,  if 
only  to  tell  me  that  you  live — that  you  forgive  me  " — 
Then  the  sentences  trailed  off  into  incoherent  frag 
ments  and  moans.  The  rocking  of  the  earth,  the 
reeling  of  the  sky,  had  obliterated,  at  last,  her  strug 
gling  consciousness. 

Once  a  warm  breath  upon  her  cheek,  and  a  tender 
touch  partly  roused  her;  she  faintly  articulated — 
"  Come  back — speak  to  me — once  more  !  "  And  all 
fell  into  silence  again. 

The  hours  passed  as  serenely  as  though  no  creature 
lay  in  that  deserted  spot,  save  only  the  long-ago  dead 
amid  their  dust. 


I08  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

Something  rubbed  her  cheek  again,  and  she  started 
up,  shivering  with  cold,  startled  to  find  herself  lying 
in  a  flood  of  moonlight,  bathed  in  dew. 

It  was  a  gentle  ewe  that  had  roused  her,  one  of  the 
denizens  of  the  place,  and  she  threw  her  arms  around 
its  woolly  neck,  sobbing  upon  its  patient  face. 

She  got  up,  shaking  as  with  an  ague,  and  hurried  as 
best  her  cramped  limbs  would  carry  her,  back  to  the 
little  hotel. 

It  was  barely  half  past  ten  o'clock,  and  the  door 
was  still  open.  She  slipped  unseen  to  her  room,  and 
when  she  had  somewhat  composed  her  wild  aspect, 
she  summoned  her  landlady,  and  said  in  answer  to 
her  curious  look, — 

"  I  find  I  must  return  to  New  York  at  once,  Mrs. 
Daggett.  Will  you  see  that  the  early  stage  stops  for 
me !  "  and  she  shut  her  door  upon  the  glib  remarks 
on  the  woman's  tongue,  who  tossed  her  head  outside, 
and  grumbled  at  so  sharp  a  warning. 

"  Folks  needn't  be  so  snappish,"  she  muttered  ; 
"and  as  for  waitin'  till  the  middle  of  the  night  to  tell 
a  body  they're  goin' — I've  got  my  opinion  of  such 
manners ! " 

The  next  morning,  when  Annie  Castlewood  came 
slowly  in  for  her  lesson,  she  received  with  several 
chapters  of  comment  from  Mrs.  Daggett,  a  little  note 
faintly  scented  and  daintily  written. 

Mrs.  Williams  was  called  home  very  suddenly. 
She  was  sorry,  indeed,  not  to  see  her  little  friend 
again,  and  would  not  forget  her,  etc. 

Annie  walked  thoughtfully  away,  in  the  midst,  it 
must  be  confessed,  of  Mrs.  Daggett's  tirade,  thereby 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  IOg 

increasing  greatly  that  good  woman's  wrath  against 
"  airy  folks  of  all  sorts.'' 

She  met  Mr.  Wallace  on  the  threshold. 

"  Mrs  Williams  had  gone  home,"  she  said,  and 
passed  into  the  house. 

Of  the  scene  in  the  graveyard  ;  of  the  fact  of  a  link 
between  the  soon-forgotten  "  Lady  "  and  John  Wallace, 
no  creature,  save  himself,  ever  guessed.  For  to  Rest- 
Hampton,  there  was  in  him  still  no  mystery.  They 
had  not  seen  his  shadow. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ANNIE  AND  HER  LOVER. 

tl  He  is  ordained  to  call  and  I  tc  come" 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

As  the  tenor  upon  the  operatic  stage  must  needs, 
for  harmony,  play  love  to  the  soprano,  so  should  the 
hero  of  a  novel  take  the  part  of  lover  to  the  heroine. 
But  fate  would  have  it  that  the  village  maiden's  hero 
was  not  her  lover.  The  history  of  John  Wallace  is  a 
tale  which  had  passed  its  mid-day  climax  before  Time 
had  written  the  first  word  of  the  romance  of  Annie 

Castlewood.     Life  is  not  always  heedful  of  harmony. 

****** 

Tom  Hatherton,  Rest-Hampton  said,  was  in  every 
respect  a  most  estimable  fellow.  If  his  late  appear 
ance  upon  the  scene  puts  him  in  a  somewhat  un 
impressive  light,  it  is  because  he  is  necessarily  placed 
in  contrast  with  Annie  Castlewood's  vague  and  im 
possible  ideals. 

There  is  nothing,  perhaps,  more  at  variance  with 
the  over-fine  sentiments  of  a  visionary  young  girl, 
than  the  matter-of-fact  sense  of  an  unimaginative  young 
man,  especially  if  he  be  country  born  and  bred.  For, 
in  spite  of  its  town-meetings  and  its  air  of  organization, 
the  atmosphere  of  Rest-Hampton  was  that  of  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  IIX 

country.  Life  there  was  almost  pastoral,  and  under 
the  touch  of  a  transcendental  novelist  might  have  been 
converted  into  an  idyl. 

But  the  purpose  of  this  rather  psychological  study 
being  merely  to  set  forth  the  outward  workings  of  a 
never-fathomed  character — that  the  reader  may  join 
hands  with  those  who  loved  but  never  quite  com 
prehended,  John  Wallace it  moves  like  a  quiet 

brook  through  the  pleasant  fields,  and  old  orchards, 
beside  the  low  roofs  of  the  village. 

If,  here  and  there,  it  reflects  a  face  beside  that  of 
him  for  whom  we  trace  it,  let  it  be  remembered  that  he 
did  not  live  apart  as  a  misanthrope  or  a  recluse,  but 
that  he  was  warm  of  heart  and  dwelt — after  a  fashion, 
at  least — among  his  fellows,  whose  images  must,  there 
fore,  blend  sometimes  with  his  own,  upon  the  surface 
of  the  story.  If,  often,  the  way  seem  remote,  or  the 
murmuring  of  the  brook  to  grow  tiresome,  listen 
awhile,  dear  reader,  and  you  will  hear  again,  above 
its  inarticulations,  the  voice  of  that  good  and  pure 
man,  who  stood  before  the  world  and — so  far  as  the 
world  could  judge — knew  no  guile. 

Those  who  went  down  that  human  current,  keeping 
peace  with  the  lovely  and  lofty  character  of  the 
stranger,  were  seldom  puzzled  with  his  intrinsic 
qualities.  It  remained  for  those  who  never  saw  him 
to  question  his  motives,  to  suspect  his  integrity.  Only 
Annie  Castlewood  was  given  to  analytics,  in  the  fresh 
and  feeble  fashion  of  one  who  has  never  been  taught 
in  books  or  in  society  to  say  "  I  doubt."  And  the 
mother,  in  a  dry,  dull  way,  wondered  sometimes  over 
the  hieroglyphics  which  she  saw  impressed  upon  the 


U2  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

man's  life,  and  would  have  secretly  deciphered  them, 
never  thinking  to  evolve  a  plausible  fiction  out  of  the 
barrenness  of  her  knowledge  of  John  Wallace,  but 

merely  to  read  his  riddle. 

****** 

Three  years  have  gone  since  the  advent  of  the 
stranger  in  Squire  Castlewood's  family,  and  Annie  is 
no  longer  a  child,  save  to  him.  She  has  developed 
into  one  of  those  "  highly  cultivated,  intelligent,  and 
refined  women  "  of  whom,  says  Mrs.  Stowe,  "  New 
England  possesses  a  great  many."  She  was  thought 
ful  and  conscientious,  kind  and  charitable  ;  delicate 
in  her  feelings,  but  honest  in  her  opinions.  More 
over,  she  was  beautiful,  with  a  beauty  difficult  to 
sketch. 

The  strong  yet  delicate  outlines  of  Mr.  Wallace's 
face  come  out  sharply,  like  a  profile  in  a  cameo. 
Squire  Castlewood  is  not  a  difficult  subject,  with  his 
old-school  manners  and  his  jovial  face.  The  little 
Quaker  woman's  appearance  could  be  described  by  a 
kindly  touch  or  two.  But  Annie's  was  one  of  those 
characters  called  by  a  modern  writer  "  irridescent  "  : 
and  this  luminous  quality  was  reflected  in  the  varying 
expressions  of  her  brow  and  lips,  and  the  changeful 
color  of  her  eyes.  These  latter  were  of  a  calm  and 
serene  blue,  as  to  actual  tint  ;  but  that  described 
them  no  more  than  the  word  "  straight  "  suggested 
the  outline  of  her  nose. 

The  dark  yet  delicate  brows  took  what  might 
hyperbolically  be  called  a  straight  curve  across  the 
most  expressive  of  foreheads  ;  and  her  mouth  had 
that  exquisite  sensitiveness  which  made  you  forget  to 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  II3 

complain  that  the  red  line  of  lips  was  scarcely  full 
enough  for  beauty.  Her  tint  was  like  a  pink  pearl  ; 
you  only  knew  it  had  any  color  when  you  compared 
it  with  dead  white  complexions.  For  the  rest,  she 
was  of  medium  height  and  extreme  slimness  ;  but 
moved  always  with  the  peculiar  springing  motions 
which  belong  to  a  few  gifted  creatures,  and  which 
entirely  preclude  any  notion  of  stiffness  or  bonyness. 

To  return  to  Tom  Hatherton, — since  this  chapter 
must  needs  do  penance  in  descriptions — he  was  as  I 
have  said,  a  fine  fellow.  You  would  have  loved  him 
for  a  certain  openness  of  countenance  and  frank  boy 
ishness  of  manner,  which  may  not  be  of  interest  in 
that  artless  animal,  the  boy,  but  have  their  fascination 
in  a  man, — suggesting  a  certain  bloom  and  freshness 
of  life  that  go  with  good  health  and  good  will  and 
youth. 

The  village  maidens  thought  Tom  a  splendid 
creature,  and  admired  the  direct  gaze  of  his  merry 
eyes  far  more  than  they  fancied  Mr.  Wallace's  dreamy 
and  middle-aged  intensity.  Indeed,  if  the  two  came 
up  for  contrast  at  all,  which  happened  sometimes, 
when  the  squire's  Nancy  and  her  chances  were  under 
discussion,  Tom  came  out  with  flying  colors  as  a  youth 
of  good  prospects  and  taking  appearance  ;  while  the 
other — well  there  were  those,  (silly  young  things  of 
course),  who  called  the  grave  scholar  a  pedagogue 
and  a  prig.  That  there  could  be  any  question  of  pref 
erence  between  the  two,  seemed  ridiculous  :  if,  indeed, 
either  of  them  really  wanted  Nancy  Castlewood. 
There  was  much  doubt  about  that.  There  always  is 
a  doubt  about  the  intention  of  gentlemen  towards 


I  14  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE, 

other  ladies  in  the  minds  of  young  women,  however 
certain  they  may  wish  their  own  opportunities  to 
appear. 

Tom's  relationship  towards  Annie  had  grown  of 
late  to  justify  the  scepticism  bestowed  upon  it.  The 
old  intimacy  which  he  had  given  with  a  very  honest 
purpose  and  she  had  accepted  tacitly  as  the  only 
thing  in  her  way,  fell  away — first  to  a  fitful  friend 
ship,  then  to  a  merely  unsatisfactory  acquaintance. 

Tom  had  had  stormy  fits  of  remonstrance  at  times, 
which  did  little  to  make  the  tie  pleasanter  ;  for  Annie 
hotly  resented  any  allusion  to  Mr.  Wallace  as  the  dis 
turbing  cause  of  their  slackening  friendship  :  or,  in 
fact,  as  the  possible  cause,  however  remote,  of  any 
event  in  her  probable  outlook. 

"  It  is  only  that  I  have  out-grown  him,"  she  said 
apologetically  to  herself ;  but  there  were  seasons  in 
which  she  regretted  dimly  that  she  was  losing  her 
boyish  lover,  and  not  replacing  his  affection  with  any 
thing  definite.  Still,  it  offended  her  for  Tom  to  speak 
his  mind,  which  he  had  seldom  done  lately. 

At  last  the  time  came  when  it  appeared  to  the 
honest  fellow  that  he  must  talk  plainly.  Perhaps 
this  determination  was  precipitated  by  the  echoes  of 
gossip  which  rang  in  his  ears.  They  seldom  reached 
the  hearing  of  Annie  herself,  who  lived  on  the  out 
side  of  the  village  chatter. 

"  Look  here,  Nancy,"  he  cried,  blustering  into  the 
old-fashioned  sitting-room  at  the  Homestead,  with  his 
usual  breeziness.  "  What's  all  this  talk  I  hear  about 
you  and  Mr.  Wallace  ?  " 

"  Indeed  /  cannot   tell   you,"    Annie  replied   with 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE,  jjjj 

dignity  ;  and  her  face  did  not  change  color  as  it  might 
have  done  in  the  first  few  months  of  her  hero-wor 
shipping. 

"  Oh,  you  can't,  can't  you  !  "  Mr.  Tom  ejaculated, 
getting  excited  in  a  minute  ;  "  well,  I  can !  They  say 
you  are  flirting  with  him." 

"  Do  they  ?  " 

"  And  what's  more  they  say  he  makes  love  to  you 
on  the  sly." 

"  Then  they  lie  !  "  and  Annie's  eyes  blazed  upon 
her  mistaken  swain.  To  vilify  John  Wallace  was  not 
the  way  to  win  her  favor. 

Tom  whistled.  Annie  rarely  used  strong  expres 
sions  such  as  were  common  with  the  villagers,  hav 
ing  "dropped  all  hearty  talk  when  she  took  to 
being  a  scholar,"  Tom  had  grumbled  in  great  um 
brage  at  the  change  in  his  sweetheart's  habits  after 
the  appearance  of  the  new  planet  in  her  sky.  He 
was,  therefore,  somewhat  mollified  upon  succeed 
ing  in  arousing  her  to  an  old-fashioned  expression  of 
disapproval. 

"  They  say,"  he  went  on  less  fiercely,  "  that  he 
reads  heathen  love  songs  to  you  by  the  hour." 

Annie  laughed  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  Poor  Goethe  ! — a  heathen  ;  Oh  my  townsmen  !  " 
she  cried  softly. 

"  Well,"  demanded  the  other,  "  doesn't  he  ?  Didn't 
Deacon  Potts  come  in  and  catch  him  at  it,  only  the 
other  evening  ?  " 

"  And  if  he  does — what  is  that  to  Deacon  Potts — 
or  to  yon  ?  '' 

Tom  winced  ;  but  he  was  bent  upon  a  disclosure,--- 


n6  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  IV ALL  ACE. 

"  Just  answer  if  he  doesn't,  Nancy." 

"  He  happens  to  be  reading  German  poetry  to  me 
just  now — Goethe  and  Heine — and  reads  it  until  I 
think  I  am  listening  to  one  of  Beethoven's  Sonatas." 

"  Oh,  you  do  !  "  such  expressions  gave  annoyance  to 
Tom's  material  soul  at  the  best  of  times. 

"  Yes,"  Annie  went  on,  her  enthusiasm  rising  not 
towards  her  hearer  but  her  theme  ;  "  and  his  voice  is 
a  rapture,  only  so  hushed,  so  tender." 

"The  devil  it  is!"  and  Tom  jumped  up  angrily, 
knocking  over  his  chair  ;  "  I  should  like  to  know 
what  right  he's  got  to  a  tender  voice.  What  does  he 
mean  by  it  ?  Does  he  mean  business  ?  Or  is  he 
fooling,  as  I've  heard  city  chaps  are  fond  of  doing  when 
they  get  hold  of  a  country  lass — especially  when 
they're  old  enough  to  be  her  grandfather  !  " 

Annie's  color  burned  uncomfortably,  but  she  saw 
it  was  best  to  explain  matters  : 

"  You  should  not  be  so  violent,  Tom,"  she  said 
drily.  "  The  tender  voice  is  not  for  me.  It  is  for 
the  poetry  ;  and  besides,  whatever  it  means,  or  what 
ever  he  means,  it  is  not  for  you  to  question.  /  am 
mistress  of  my  own  situations." 

Tom  was  aghast.     A  final  rupture  seemed  pending. 

"  Great  Heavens !  Annie,"  he  cried  penitently, 
"  don't  talk  in  that  hard,  cold  way.  Don't  let  that 
man  come  between  us — any  longer." 

"  He  has  not  come  between  us,  Tom;  it  is  your 
hatred  of  him  that  has  come  between  us." 

"  I  believe  it  is,"  cried  the  honest  fellow,  a  sensa 
tion  rising  in  his  throat  which  would  have  caused  a 
great  burst  of  tears  not  many  years  before  ;  "  Oh, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE.  117 

Annie  ;  I  believe  I  am  jealous  of  him,  and  that  it  is 
he  and  not  I,  who  is  worthy  of  you." 

"There  is  no  question  of  his  worthiness,"  said 
Annie,  gently  stifling  an  unborn  sigh  in  the  depths 
of  her  heart.  "  It  is  I — we — who  are  not  worthy  of 
him.  I  often  think  of  the  old  Bible  phrase  ;  '  whose 
shoe-latchets  I  am  not  worthy  to  unlace  !  '  Mr.  Wallace 
has  no  thought  of  us  and  our  ways,  Tom.  I  think 
he  sees  us  somehow  as  figures  moving  through 
a  play  upon  the  stage,  and  a  poor  enough  comedy, 
too." 

"  Why  do  you  think  such  things  about  him,  Nancy, 
as  if  he  were  a  god  ?  " 

"  Because  I  see  his  life,  and  it  is  without  fault." 

"  But  surely  he's  not  better  than  your  own  good, 
kind  father." 

"  He  is  of  a  higher  and  rarer  type,  Tom,  than  any 
creature  here." 

"  Tell  me  what  you  mean,"  said  Tom  humbly,  "  what 
does  he  do  ? " 

Annie  smiled, — 

"  It  is  not  so  much  what  he  does.  There  is  nothing 
awful  or  mysterious  about  that.  Besides  his  long 
walks,  and  his  visits  among  the  poor,  and  his  teaching 
the  fishermen  at  Three-Mile-Harbor,  and  the  sailors 
once  a  week  at  Sag  Harbor " 

"  And  reading  to  you  Annie,"  interpolates  Tom, 
reproachfully. 

'•  Yes — and  teaching  me,"  said  Annie  quietly,  "  who 
am  as  far  still  from  his  standard  as  those  poor 
ignorant  fishermen  ;  besides  the  thousand  and  one 
things  you  all  see  him  do,  and  the  heaps  upon  heaps  of 


n8  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

letters  he  writes,  he  sits  and  ponders  a  great  deal,  as 
though  he  weighed  problems  in  his  mind  which  he 
could  not  quite  solve." 

"What's  wonderful  or  useful  in  that?  "  asked  Mr. 
Tom,  not  impressed. 

Annie  went  on,  not  noticing  the  interruption, — 

"  He  reads  much  in  old  books  whose  tongues  are 
unknown  to  me — Sanskrit,  I  take  them  to  be,  but 
most  of  all,  he  writes  letters." 

"  Who  does  he  write  to,  in  Heaven's  name  ?  "  cried 
Tom  appalled. 

"  I  do  not  know  ?  " 

"Why  don't  you  look?  " 

Annie's  cheeks  flushed, — 

"  Do  you  mean  why  do  I  not  look  at  the  addresses  ?  " 

"  Of  course.     What  else  could  I  mean  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  some  of  them  lying  on  his  table  when 
I  go  into  his  study  to  dust  of  a  morning.  I  have  never 
read  the  directions  in  full,  for  I  think  he  prefers  hav 
ing  his  affairs  to  himself.  But  the  name  on  them 
seemed  to  be  Mr.  Roderic  Clarkson." 

"  And  does  he  get  as  many  as  he  writes  ? " 

Tom  was  growing  interested  in  the  practical  work 
ings  of  such  an  eccentricity. 

"  I  think  he  does.  They  come  every  mail,  but 
always  in  large  outer  envelopes  addressed  in  the  same 
handwriting,  as  if  they  were  forwarded  from  some  one 
point.  And  yet,"  added  Annie  thoughtfully,  "  they 
seem  to  be  the  only  threads  that  hold  him  to  a  past 
world  that  would  else  slip  from  his  grasp." 

"  How  did  you  make  it  all  out,  Nancy  ?  "  queried 
Tom,  not  without  admiration. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  ug 

"  It  came  to  me — from  living  near  him,  and  seeing 
things  as  they  happen." 

"  Don't  he  talk  about  what  he's  studying  over  ? " 

"  Never.  He  speaks  sometimes  of  the  books  he 
reads  ;  but  only  when  his  suggestions  seem  likely  to 
benefit  some  one." 

"  Don't  he  ever  tell  you  of  the  people  that  write  to 
him  ?  " 

"  Never  a  word.  He  burns  the  letters  in  his  fire 
as  soon  as  he  has  read  them." 

"  A  waste  of  stationery,  I  should  say.  But  don't  he 
speak  of  his  home,  or  his  folks  ?  " 

"  He  has  never  mentioned  them." 

"  Kind  of  aggravating,  ain't  it  ?  " 

Tom's  crude  comment  jarred  visibly  upon  Annie's 
sensitive  nerves,  which  were  growing  more  susceptible 
every  day.  An  observer, — who  did  not  count  for  much 
the  higher  culture  of  the  soul,  and  the  finer  possibil 
ities  which  accompany  such  culture, — might  have 
said  that  John  Wallace's  wisdom  was  unfitting  his 
young  prote"g£  for  her  daily  life  in  a  work-a-day  and 
never  very  sympathetic  community. 

"  I  say  though,  Nancy  ;  you're  a  heap  changed," 
broke  in  Mr.  Tom  upon  her  revery,  after  having  con 
templated  her  sidewise  with  a  lugubriously  wistful 
expression. 

"Am  I?"  dreamily. 

"  Yes  you  are  less  like  yourself,  and  more  like  your 
Mr.  Wallace,  every  day." 

"  Like  Mr.  Wallace  !  "  Annie  was  roused  from  her 
dream  and  sat  staring  incredulously  at  Tom. 

The  girl  looked  at  that  moment  too  winning  not  to 


120  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

attract  admiration.  She  sat  with  her  hands  lying 
loosely,  one  upon  the  other,  palms  upward,  in  her  lap. 
Her  head,  with  its  smooth  bands  of  golden  brown 
hair,  finished  with  a  heavy  coil  low  upon  the  neck, 
was  a  little  to  one  side  with  that  bird-like  aspect  a 
modern  writer  describes  as  "  half  posed  for  rest,  half 
poised  for  flight."  Her  soft  eyes,  too,  had  looks  like 
birds  flying  to  the  light.  It  was  her  favorite  attitude, 
and  very  likely  the  one  in  which  she  sat  and  caught 
eagerly  at  the  rare  thoughts  of  her  instructor  on  many 
a  pleasant  summer  morning  and  long  winter  evening 
in  the  pretty  sewing-room  of  the  Homestead.  The 
mother  came  and  went  in  summer,  through  the  always 
open  door  that  led  into  the  song-filled  orchard.  And 
in  the  winter  nights,  when  the  wind  swept  about  the 
farmhouse  and  the  sound  of  the  sea  was  heavy  upon 
the  sands,  the  two  students  were  often  wrapped  in 
that  oblivion  of  all  else  only  known  to  boon  spirits  in 
intercourse — whether  of  the  intellect,  or  of  the  affec 
tions — which  prevented  their  even  hearing  the  some 
what  dull  prosing  of  the  elder  people,  or  the  conten 
tions  of  the  boys. 

She  sat  so  now,  distractingly  pretty  and  uncon 
scious,  gazing  upon  Tom  : 

"  How  do  you  mean  that  I  am  like  Mr.  Wallace  ? " 
she  questioned  slowly,  having  a  dim  idea  that  whatso 
ever  this  unimaginative  intelligence  perceived  must 
have  an  existence. 

"  I  don't  say  how  I  mean,  or  that  I  mean  anything 
particular.  I'm  not  one  of  the  fellows  that's  always 
meaning  something."  Tom  was  aifrouted  at  Annie's 
sparkling  look. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  121 

"  Do  you  think  I  talk  like  him  ?  "  Annie  asked, 
keenly  interested  in  the  pursuit  of  her  theory. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  don't  know  but  I  do,"  Mr.  Tom  as 
sented,  vernacularly.  "  You  use  big  words,  and  always 
seem  to  be  having  something  on  your  mind  besides 
what  a  body's  saying  to  you."  Tom's  tone  had  a  per 
sonal  grievance  in  it. 

Annie  laughed  merrily. 

"  If  that  is  all,  it's  a  very  faint  resemblance,"  she 
said. 

"  Oh,"  persisted  Tom,  not  liking  his  remarks  to  be 
taken  too  lightly,  "  that's  not  all.  You  walk  about 
in  a  moony  sort  of  way,  and — I  declare  to  you,  Nancy, 
you  actually  look  like  him.  And  I'm  not  the  first  to 
say  so  !  so  there  !  " 

"  I  ? " 

Annie  started  up  and  stood  on  tiptoe,  facing  the 
quaint  old  mirror  that  extended  its  two  or  three  feet 
of  height  along  the  mantel-shelf.  Apparently,  the 
face  she  was  comparing  with  her  own  eager  one  was 
not  difficult  to  conjure  up.  One  might  have  supposed 
it  to  be  delineated  upon  the  glass,  to  have  heard  her 
accurate  description  of  it. 

"  Straight  brow  ;  straight  nose ;  wonderful  dark 
eyes  ;  complexion  clear  and  pale  ;  mouth  large  and 
firm ;  jaw  square  but  delicate — mine  is  not  at  all  like 
that"  she  said  disappointed. 

"  Oh  don't  now,"  cried  Tom  impatiently,  "  I  didn't 
say  it  was  the  color  of  your  eyes,  or  the  shape  of  your 
nose.  It's  the  way  you  look." 

Annie  relapsed  into  her  old  attitude,  and  pondered 
with  a  lovely  light  in  her  eyes.  Could  it  be  that  she 


I22  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE 

had  so  absorbed  what  was  granted  her  of  this  lofty 
nature  that  she — plain  Annie  Castlewood — had  caught 
something  of  its  aspect  ?  something  of  that  ineffable 
charm  which  shone  from  the  face  she  knew  so  well  ? 

"  But,"  thought  Annie  reprovingly :  "  even  if  it 
were  so,  and  Tom  sees  something  he  mistakes  for  a 
likeness,  it  is  only  a  reflection  after  all  :  the  original 
is  a  power." 

Tom  Hatherton,  it  seemed,  was  not  the  only 
villager  who  had  noticed,  or  fancied,  the  resemblance 
between  the  squire's  Nancy  and  his  boarder.  It 
might  be,  they  tattled  among  themselves,  that  this 
Mr.  Wallace,  whose  business  nobody  seemed  to  know 
was  some  kin  to  the  mother,  (who  being  a  stranger  to 
the  place  was  frequently  suspected  of  having  mysteri 
ous  kin,  either  creditable  or  otherwise  according  to 
the  provocation  of  the  moment).  Suppose  he  should 
turn  out  to  be  an  uncle,  or  a  rich  cousin,  come  in  dis 
guise,  to  study  the  ways  of  his  folks  before  he  revealed 
himself  !  Of  course  if  he  were,  he  meant  to  make 
Nancy  his  heiress,  since  it  was  with  her  he  took  such 
pains. 

And  even  if  he  were  not  any  kin,  mightn't  he  take 
a  notion  to  leave  his  money  to  Nancy  anyway  ? — who 
knows  ! 

Tom  had  kept  these  things  in  his  heart,  having 
picked  them  up  among  the  confidences  of  the  neigh 
bors'  daughters  ;  but  neither  Squire  Castlewood  nor 
his  family  was  made  a  party  to  the  country  gossip. 
Indeed,  they  had  never  been  very  intimate  in  the 
village,  occupying  as  they  did,  the  doubtful  ground  of 
beins:  "  better  than  most." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  ^3 

"Well,"  said  Tom,  almost  roughly,  "you  seem  to 
be  mighty  glad." 

"  I  should  be  glad,  if  I  thought  it  might  ever  be 
possible,"  sighed  Annie. 

"I  wouldn't,"  remarked  Tom,  still  harshly.  "It's 
bad  enough,  as  it  is,  and  makes  you  hold  yourself  a 
sight  above  a  common-place  fellow  like  me." 

Poor  Tom  !  he  had  so  good  a  heart !  and  this  time  he 
spoke  the  truth  in  so  discriminating  a  way. 

"  I  don't  hold  myself  above  you,  Tom." 

(  But  Annie  added  to  herself.     "  I  am  upheld.") 

"  O  yes,  you  do,  Nancy  !  You  used  to  be  right 
smart  pleased  when  I  came  and  fancied  you.  Now, 
it's  a  bother  for  you  to  talk  to  me — I  see  it  is." 

"  No,  indeed,  it  is  not,"  she  cried  earnestly,  her  child 
ish  affection  for  the  lad  stirring  in  her  warm  and — 
thanks  to  John  Wallace's  wisdom — unspoiled  heart. 
Indeed,  I  like  you  as  much  as  ever,  Tom,  only — I'm  so 
preoccupied." 

"  What  about,  Nancy  ? " 

"  Why,  my  studies,  and  my  reading,  and  my  music. 
"  Mr.  Wallace  is  helping  me  with  the  science  of  har 
mony." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  science  of  har 
mony,"  queried  Mr.  Tom  with  pardonable  contempt. 

"  I  am  going  to  study  the  theory  of  music.  Father 
says  he  will  buy  me  a  piano,  soon.  Oh  Tom  !  " 
Annie  cried,  her  sweet  face  flushing  joyously,  "  why 
are  you  not  glad  with  me,  if  you  want  my  friendship, 
for  this  great  benefit  that  has  befallen  my  lot  ?  " 

Tom  Hatherton  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  What  benefit,  Nancy  ?  " 


I24  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  Do  you  not  see  that  the  greatest  good  which  could 
have  come  to  me,  is  that  I  have  been  able  to  open  up 
my  life  and  to  take  some  part  in  the  wide  culture  out 
side  of  this  poor  little  village  ?  " 

"  No — I  don't,"  responded  Mr.  Tom  decidedly,  "  not 
when  it  makes  you  talk  that  way  about  the  only  place 
you've  ever  known,  or  are  likely  to  know." 

"  It  has  made  me  enjoy  even  this  place,  which  be 
fore  was  a  grave  to  me,"  said  Annie  hastily. 

"  If  you  mean  that  you  were  discontented  before 
your  Mr.  Wallace  came  and  put  notions  into  your 
head,  all  I've  got  to  say  is  that  you  didn't  talk  about 
it." 

"  I  did  not  know  how"  she  answered,  after  a  pause. 
"  Myself  was  a  sealed  book.  I  was  sad  without 
knowing  why.  It  is  Mr.  Wallace  who  has  opened  my 
eyes  and  my  heart  to  a  great  world  without  and  within. 
He  has  taught  me  first  to  perceive,  and  then  to  ex 
press.  It  is  a  revelation — a  gift." 

"And  what  I  want  to  know  is,"  cried  Tom  desper 
ately,  "  what  you  mean  to  do  with  all  of  this  wisdom 
and  experience  ?  Can  your  father  buy  you  something 
to  practise  it  on  ?  like  the  piano,  for  instance  ?  What's 
to  come  after  ?  " 

It  was  a  supernatural  gleam  of  perception  on  Tom's 
part,  and  showed  a  dormant  shrewdness  which  only 
wanted  waking  into  activity. 

"  There  will  be  nothing  more  to  come,"  Annie  said, 
half  sadly,  "  except  that  I  can  study  on,  and  im 
prove" 

Her  sentence  trailed  off  into  a  pause. 

"  It  sounds  rather  like  all  work  and  no  play,  don't  it, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  ^5 

Nancy  ?  "  Tom  spoke  drily,  his  opportunity  was  not 
lost  upon  him. 

"  Perhaps  it  does,  but  there  is  at  least,  no  limit  to 
it."  Then  she  added,  trying  to  regain  her  late  enthu 
siasm.  "  I  can  acquire  continually,  I  can  broaden  and 
expand." 

"Then  what?" 

The  girl  met  her  questioner's  eyes  with  a  half  im 
patient  look. 

"  What  nonsense,  Tom  !  As  if  one  could  always 
look  into  the  future  and  say  what  comes  next !  As  if 
one  wanted  to  ! " 

"  Nancy,"  said  Tom,  seeming  somehow  to  have  sud 
denly  developed  into  a  superior  creature  who  had  the 
advantage  of  her, — "  Nancy,  do  you  believe  that  you 
will  always  be  satisfied  to  live  as  you  are  living  now, 
with  nothing  but  books,  and  ambition  and  what  you 
call  expanding  ?  " 

Annie  Castlewood  sat  mute,  confronted  for  the  first 
time  during  many  months,  with  a  future  in  which  the 
heart  and  its  affections  had  no  part. 

Tom  crossed  the  room,  and  sat  down  beside 
her,  gaining  every  instant  in  that  indescribable  ad- 
van  age. 

"  Do  you,  Nancy  ?  Tell  me  true  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  thought  about  tJiat  for  a  long  while, 
Tom.  I've  been  absorbed,"  stammered  poor  Annie. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

"  Why^w/  know,  I  am  nineteen,"  replied  the  girl, 
surprised. 

"  Suppose  you  should  live  to  be  ninety — you  might 
you  know — do  you  think  improvement,  and  progress, 


I26  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

and  all  the  rest  of  it,  would  satisfy  you  for  seventy 
years  ?  " 

Annie  looked  appalled,  and  Torn  noted  another  point 
gained. 

"  Why,  no,  of  course  it  wouldn't !  "  she  said  emphat 
ically. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  get  old  ? " 

"  I  hope,"  said  Annie  rallying,  "  to  see  something 
of  the  world.  I  shall  not  live  here  all  my  days." 

"  Is  your  father  going  to  buy  New  York  for  you  ?  " 

Tom  was  growing  magnificent,  and  Nancy  smiled 
through  her  doubts. 

"  He  may  take  me  to  see  New  York  some  day,"  she 
ventured. 

"  And  then  bring  you  back  to  Rest-Hampton.  What 
good  would  that  do  ?  You're  already  unfitted  enough 
for  living  here. — No — no,  Nancy,  you  can't  look  for 
ward  to  that  sort  of  thing  either,  to  bring  you  satis 
faction." 

Annie  was  silent. 

"  Is  it  a  good  thing  for  a  girl,  dear,  to  be  made  dis 
satisfied  with  the  things  about  her,  and  unfitted  to  be 
an  honest  country  lass,  unless  there  is  some  one  to 
make  an  honest  great  lady  of  her  ? '' 

"  Yes,"  cried  Annie,  struggling  hard  against  the 
convictions  so  forced  upon  her  :  "  it  is  a  good  thing  for 
any  person  to  be  elevated  intellectually  above  the  dis 
advantages  of  birth  and  surroundings,  and  taught  that 
there  arc  things  in  the  world  besides  baking  and  sew 
ing,  and  keeping  a  house  !  " 

"  But  a  woman,  Annie,  I  mean  a  woman." 

"Yes,"  she  said  with  an  attempt  at   bravado:  "I 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  i2j 

mean  a  woman  also.  I  have  no  patience  with  the 
notions  of  our  people  here  that  book-learning 
is  not  safe  for  a  woman.  Would  you  have  er  igno 
rant?" 

"  I  would  have  her  live,  as  God  meant  every  woman 
should  live — with  a  man  who  loves  her." 

There  was  another  silence  in  which  Tom  still 
gazed,  and  Annie  still  faltered — their  two  hearts,  so 
long  separated  by  diverse  ways  of  thinking  and  living, 
beating  in  unison  at  last  over  the  same  solemn 
thought. 

"  Annie,  do  you  believe  that  Mr.  Wallace  ever 
intends  to  love  you  !  " 

"  Oh  no — never \  " 

"Do  you  love  Mr.  Wallace  ?  " 

"  No,  Tom — of  course  I  don't ;  you  should  not  ask 
me  such  a  question  !  " 

"  Then  it's  not  your  heart  that  is  absorbed  in  these 
fine'notions  of  yours  ?  " 

"  I  think  not." 

"  But  you  want  to  see  the  world,  Nancy  ?  you  are 
sure  of  that  ?  Would  you  be  willing  to  leave — Mr. 
Wallace?" 

"  Yes,  I  would  be  willing,"  after  a  painful  pause. 

"  Do  you  recollect  what  you  called  him,  last 
week  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Annie,  wondering. 

"  You  called  him  your  Inspiration.  Would  you 
be  happy  to  leave  that  behind  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  could  be  happy ;  for  I  should  always 
have  with  me  the  things  which  Mr.  Wallace  has  in 
spired." 


I28  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  Then,  Annie,  I  am  going  to  make  a  place  for  you 
in  the  world." 

"  Oh  Tom  !  "  began  the  girl  deprecatingly  ;  but  he 
stopped  her : 

"  Don't  speak  yet,  Nancy.  Don't  be  hasty.  When 
I  came  here,  I  had  no  idea  of  saying  what  I  have.  I 
had  meant  to  go  and  make  the  place  for  you  first. 
But  it  has  all  come  about  so  that  I  couldn't  keep 
silence.  You'll  think  well  of  it  ?  " 

His  voice  shook  a  little;  but  he  had  the  masterful 
look  still.  When  a  man  dares  to  ask  an  unwon  woman 
to  marry  him,  he  at  least  possesses  courage. 

"  How  can  I  think  of  it,  Tom,"  she  asked  despair 
ingly.  "  We  have  been  estranged — we  have  ceased 
to  be  in  sympathy " 

"  Don't  say  any  more,  Nancy.  Jealousy  in  my  own 
heart  has  made  war  between  us.  The  want  of  sym 
pathy  is  only  on  top.  Don't  drive  me  away  this  time, 
dear.  For,  as  God  is  in  Heaven,  I  will  never  come 
back  and  ask  you  again,  if  you  do." 

Annie  sat  staring  helplessly  at  her  lover's  agitated 
face.  He  did  not  need  to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her. 
His  life  had  proved  it.  But  she — what  could  she  say  ? 
Surely,  she  had  no  love  in  her  heart  for  Tom  Hather- 
ton.  But  the  vision  of  him  going  away  and  never 
coming  back  ! — tliat  appealed  to  her  with  a  humilia 
ting  sense  of  her  own  dependence  upon  his  only  half 
noted  devotion. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  cried,  feeling  herself  in  a 
dire  strait. 

"I  don't  believe  you  can  send  me  away — for  noth 
ing,  Nancy." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  I2g 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot ;  but  why  can't  we  live 
on  as  we  have  been  doing  ? " 

"  Because,"  cried  the  young  man  hotly,  "  I  am  not 
willing  to  be  nothing  more  than  a  dog,  to  come  and 
go,  and  get  noticed  or  not  just  as  it  suits  you  !  And 
because,  Annie,"  softening,  "  I  love  you  dearly  and 
need  your  presence  to  make  me  happy." 

"  What  can  you  do,  in  a  great  city,  Tom  ?  "  she 
asked  evading  the  question,  temporarily. 

"  I  can  make  my  way  as  other  men  have  done,"  he 
answered  determinedly  ;  "  But  Annie — you  have  not 
promised  me  anything.  Suppose,  when  I  come  back, 
things  will  have  changed." 

"  How  changed  ?  " 

"  Suppose  Mr.  Wallace  should  make  up  his  mind 
to  marry  you,  what  then  ?  " 

"  You  need  not  question  about  that !  "  said  the  girl 
firmly.  "  It  could  never  happen." 

Tom  looked  at  her  and  read  her  thoughts  ;  for  his 
own  sincerity  of  purpose  made  her  face  very  trans 
parent  to  him. 

"  I  see,"  he  said  sadly,  "  that  there  would  be  no 
chance  for  me, — if  such  a  thing  could  happen." 

Annie  did  not  speak.  She  too  felt  the  truth  of 
the  statement. 

"  As  it  is  sure  never  to  occur,  please  don't  let  us 
talk  about  it,"  she  said  finally. 

Tom  Hatherton  looked  reproachfully  at  the  troubled 
face  of  his  companion.  It  was  but  a  poor  love- 
making  that  he  could  do,  with  such  a  wide  spiritual  dis 
tance  between  them.  At  that  moment  he  would  not 
have  dared  to  approach  her  with  any  of  those  tender 


!30  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

caresses  which  help  so  wonderfully  in  a  wooing. 
Still,  he  loved  the  girl  and  was  bent  upon  winning  at 
least  a  partial  consent. 

He  rose  up  and  stood  close  beside  her,  looking 
down  upon  her  with  a  patient  seriousness. 

"  Will  you  at  least  give  me  your  promise,  Nancy, 
that  you'll  listen  to  no  man  until  I  come  back  to  claim 
you  to  be  my  wife  ?  " 

Annie  pondered.  There  was  no  man  "  but  Tom," 
it  was  not  likely  that  another  strange  being  would 
come  down  like  a  god  upon  the  village.  So  she  ans 
wered  gravely  : 

"  I  will  wait.  That  is,  Tom,  until  I  myself  let  you 
know  to  the  contrary,  you  may  believe  that  I  am 
waiting." 

It  was  a  poor  response  to  his  whole-hearted  desire. 
Tom  felt  more  sobered  than  triumphant. 

"  Did  you  know  that  I  am  going  to  New  York  this 
afternoon,  Nancy  ? " 

"  No  ! — are  you  ?  "  She  looked  up  quickly  with  a 
sense  of  relief  which  Tom  could  not  but  see. 

"  Yes — good-by,  little  woman." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  gently. 

"  You  are  a  good  scholar,  Nancy.  Won't  you 
write  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Tom — sometimes." 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Here  are  the  voices  presently  shall  sound 
In  due  succession.   First  the  world's  outcry, 
Around  the  rush  and  ripple  of  any  fact 
Fallen  stonewise,  plumb  on  the  smooth  face  of  things 
The  world's  guess,  as  it  crowds  the  bank  d1  the  pool 
At  what  were  figure  and  substance,  by  their  splash  : 
Then,  by  vibrations  in  the  general  mind 
At  depth  of  deep  already  out  of  reach." 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

IT  will  be  seen  that,  as  yet,  the  girl  was  not  quite 
spoiled  ;  for,  having  turned  aside  but  a  few  moments 
from  her  ambitions  and  from  beholding  John  Wallace's 
face,  Annie  Castlewood  had  pledged  her  boundless 
fancies  and  her  unwon  desires  to  honest,  unimagina 
tive  Tom  Hatherton.  Truly  hers  was,  after  all,  but  a 
woman's  heart,  and  she,  like  the  weakest  of  her  sex, 
was  most  appealed  to  through  that  part  of  her  nature 
which  craves  the  support  and  protection  of  the  sterner 
nature  that,  sooner  or  later,  seeks  her. 

More  than  all,  the  accustomedness  of  years  had 
been  at  work :  and  when  it  came  to  the  test,  the 
newer  and  keener  motives  failed.  Still,  it  was  likely 
to  prove  a  dangerous  experiment.  The  girl  was  in 
capable  of  ennui,  since  it  presupposes  satiety.  But 
she  was  an  easy  prey  to  that  vague  form  of  dissatisfac 
tion  which  knows  not  for  what  it  hungers. 

Certainly,  she  had  never  hungered  for  Tom. 


132  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE, 

When  he  left  her,  the  new  purpose  that  had  sprung 
up  in  his  life  lending  as  he  went  a  manliness  to  his 
gait,  and  a  dignity  to  his  figure,  Annie  was  dazed  and 
bewildered. 

Her  gaze  wandered  first  up  and  down  the  quiet 
street  to  the  front,  and  then  from  the  side  windows 
far  into  the  green  and  sheltered  depths  of  the  orchard. 
She  was  thinking — or  was  it  only  dreaming  ?  picturing 
in  a  fantastic  medley,  her  early  childhood  with  its 
joyous  content,  her  girlhood  with  its  uneventful  and 
almost  hopeless  calm,  until  the  coming  of  John 
Wallace.  There,  the  whole  scene  was  altered.  Life 
for  three  years,  had  been  vivid  in  interest,  intense  in 
aim.  All  this  was  real :  but  the  future  confronted  her 
like  a  dense  mist  in  which  all  things  were  vague. 
Even  "  the  place  in  the  world  "  Tom  had  talked  of 
making,  seemed  unsubstantial  and  remote. 

She  thought  of  the  old  farm-house  without  her,  going 
on  with  its  monotonous  succession  of  domestic  com 
forts  and  cares.  What  would  Mr.  Wallace  say  ?  Would 
he  miss  her  from  the  placidly  ordered  routine  of  his 
retirement  ?  It  smote  Annie's  heart  with  an  acute 
pain  that  she  was  forced  to  answer  herself  in  the 
negative. 

And  Tom  ;  did  she  care  anything  about  Tom 
Hatherton  ?  She  was  not  sure  that  there  existed  for 
him  a  spark  of  feeling  in  her  breast  beyond  that  accus- 
tomedness  of  years. 

"However,  I  \\zvzpromiscd  him  nothing — except 
ing  to  wait,"  she  sighed  from  the  depths  of  her 
bewildered  dream.  And  looking  up,  she  met  the  kind 
and  searching  gaze  of  Mr.  Wallace. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  13$ 

"  Child,  why  did  you  do  it  ?  " 

"I — oh,  I  do  not  know!"  she  stammered,  not 
surprised  that  he  should  read  her  new  secret,  since  it 
always  seemed  to  her  Mr.  Wallace  knew  all  things 
by  a  certain  miraculous  discernment  of  his  own. 

"  Do  you  love  that  young  man,  Annie  ?  " 

Annie  shook  her  head  dubiously, — 

"  I  do  not  know  that  either,  Mr.  Wallace."  and  her 
birdlike  glance  flew  straight  to  his  with  a  troubled 
flutter. 

"  Then  why  did  you  promise  to  marry  him  ?" 

"  I  did  not  promise  that"  she  protested. 

"  I  met  him  in  the  lane,  just  now,  and  he  burst  upon 
me  with  the  news  that  he  had  got  a  promise  from 
you." 

"  Yes  : — a  promise  to  zvatt." 

Annie  said  it  drearily,  already,  at  the  first  sound  of 
her  hero's  voice,  the  prospect  seemed  to  grow  dull, 
and  the  thing  for  which  she  was  to  wait,  poor.  A  sense 
of  disenchantment,  when  some  project  is  first  held 
up  to  the  critical  gaze  of  another,  is  no  new  thing  in 
the  history  of  small  events. 

"  What  will  you  wait  for  ?  " 

"  For  Tom  to  make  his  fortune." 

" Here?" — the  tone  betrayed  more  amazement 
than  Mr.  Wallace  often  permitted  himself  to  bestow 
upon  the  ways  of  the  village. 

"  No,  he  will  go  to  New  York, — and  make  a  place 
for  me  in  the  world,"  finished  Annie,  quoting  uncon 
sciously  her  lover's  own  words. 

"  And  that  is  what  you  wish  for,  Annie  ?  To  be  in 
the  world." 


!34  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  I  have  always  wished  for  it — even  more  than  now  ; 
I  used  to  crave  it.  Oh,  Mr.  Wallace  ! "  cried  the 
girl,  her  sweet  eyes  shining  with  unshed  tears,  "  life 
is  so  narrow  in  this  place  !  Before  you  came,  there  was 
nothing  but  to  eat  and  sleep  ;  to  wake  and  work  ;  and 
then  to  eat  and  sleep  again.  You  have  broadened  and 
beautified  my  life  ;  but  all  that  I  can  feel  or  do  is  in 
spite  of  the  place.  There  are  no  helps  from  without 
— only  hindrances.  There  must  be  something  better 
than  this !  " 

"  Something  more  varied — yes.  But  the  world  is 
not  a  good  place,  nor  a  kind  place,  nor  a  restful  place. 
You  are  happier  here,  child." 

Annie  looked  blank.  Mr.  Wallace  was  using,  in 
different  words,  the  same  argument  against  Tom,  that 
Tom  himself  had  used  to  further  his  cause. 

Her  companion  saw  that  she  misunderstood  him, — 

"  I  mean  to  ask  you,  Annie,  if  you  love  Tom  enough 
to  satisfy  all  the  possible  demands  of  your  developing 
nature  ? " 

She  shook  her  head.  Somehow,  she  could  not 
answer  lightly  those  penetrating  eyes. 

"Are  you  not  happy  as  you  are,  child  ?"  searching 
her  with  that  "  mild  intensity  innocent  of  any  inten 
tion."  He  probed  her  also  with  the  tones  of  his  voice, 
not  so  much  like  music,  for  it  was  witnout  marked 
cadence,  as  like  the  voice  of  a  poet  speaking  a  rapt 
monody. 

Annie's  being  was  thrilled  with  a  nameless  emotion, 
far  echoes  of  which  she  had  felt  stirring  in  her  bosom 
when  first  she  saw  this  man  and  worshipped  him. 
One  of  John  Wallace's  peculiarities,  v/e  have  said,  was 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  j^jj 

his  marvelous  intuition.  It  was  swift,  keen,  unerring, 
like  a  woman's  ;  only  unlike  hers,  it  was  speechless. 
Looking,  he  beheld  in  Annie's  eyes,  something,  at 
which  there  came  over  his  face  and  his  demeanor  that 
fine  thin  veil  of  coldness  which  is  but  the  silent  with 
drawal  of  the  spirit. 

The  young  girl  felt  it ;  for  her  sympathy  with  this 
singularly  sensitive  nature  had  made  more  acute  her 
own  sensibilities.  Mutely  she  accepted  the  withdrawal 
as  an  uncomprehended  rebuke  for  an  uncomprehended 
blunder  of  her  own.  So  in  dealing,  however  tenderly 
with  fine,  high-strung  natures,  we  are  all  apt  to  prick 
our  spiritual  fingers.  It  was  one  of  the  penalties 
which  Joshua  Castlewood's  "  sentimental "  little 
daughter  had  to  pay  for  her  privileged  relationship 
towards  the  honored  guest. 

Often,  some  look  met  hers,  that  seemed  to  come 
from  out  the  depths  of  Mr.  Wallace's  heart,  and  to 
show  her  a  still  sunny  region,  not  made  quite  desolate 
by  its  untold  memories.  But  if  such  a  look  drew  from 
her  transparent  eyes  either  surprise  or  pleased  response 
it  would  vanish  like  one  of  his  own  rare  smiles,  which 
was  so  swift,  one  only  knew  it  had  been,  by  the  still 
gravity  that  followed.  So  Annie  would  be  conscious, 
only  after  the  look  had  vanished,  that  something  had 
come  and  gone  which  it  would  have  been  sweet  to 
keep. 

This  man's  tact,  however,  was  no  less  than  his  in 
sight  :  his  sensitive  responsiveness  never  failed.  And 
so,  when  he  knew  just  now,  by  the  voiceless  power  of 
the  spirit  which  telleth  all  things  to  him  whose  inner 
ears  are  open,  that  he  had  chilled  poor  Annie,  he 


I36  THE  SHADOW  OF  JO  JIN  WALLACE. 

gently  resumed  the  fatherly  affection  which  had  led 
him  to  take  her  hand  as  he  said  :  "  Annie,  you  are 
much  to  me." 

He  held  it  still,  and  caressed  kindly  the  pretty  rosy 
fingers.  Then  he  went  back  to  the  momentous 
question,  but  without  the  momentous  look  or  purport. 

"  When  I  ask  if  you  are  not  happy,  Annie,  I  do  not 
mean  in  any  transcendental  sense  ;  this  is  not  a  world  of 
ideals.  Happiness  is,  after  all,  a  thing  of  temperament, 
a  condition  of  the  mind  and  body,  rather  than  a  result 
of  circumstances.  You  are  sound  and  well,  and  have 
plenty  of  hope," — smiling,  "  you  ought  to  be  radiant." 

"  I  am  happy,"  said  Annie,  answering  his  smile, 
"  when  I  live  one  day  at  a  time,  and  allow  myself  to 
think  of  nothing  but  my  studies,  and  the  beautiful 
things  you  teach  me.' 

'  And  at  other  times  ?  "  he  questioned  her  with  his 
kind  looks. 

"Then — I  am  restless — I  long" — Annie  paused, 
even  to  this  man,  high-priest  in  her  temple  of  fancy, 
she  could  not  reveal  the  secret  yearnings  of  her 
woman's  nature. 

"It  is  the  old  story,"  mused  the  other,  more  to  him 
self  than  to  his  companion  "  the  restless  dreams,  the 
nameless  aspirations  of  the  heart ;  and  you  think  it  is 
your  ambition,  child,  that  is  crying  to  be  fed  !  " 

Annie  was  disturbed. 

"  Why  "  cried  some  consciousness  within  her,  "  does 
he  trouble  the  waters  of  my  soul,  when  he  cannot 
lead  me  to  be  healed  ?  " 

After  a  silence,  Mr.  Wallace  rose  abruptly, — 

"  Perhaps  I  am  wrong,  Annie.    Experience  after  all 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  137 

only  teaches  us  of  our  own  ways,  not  those  of  another. 
All  must  pass  through  vales  of  tears  to  learn  the 
true  relations  of  things.  I  have  been  trying  to  lay 
the  old  burden  of  my  knowledge  of  the  world  upon 
young  shoulders.  Go,  live  for  yourself,  child,  you  may 
find  the  happiness  that  somehow  I  have  missed." 

He  walked  from  the  room  ;  but  Annie  sat  and 
wept. 

The  waters  were  indeed  troubled,  and  John  Wal 
lace  had  not  proved  an  angel  of  healing. 

After  a  while  she  got  up,  and  went  slowly  to  her 
mother's  presence.  She  felt  doubtful  about  her  ap 
proval.  The  demure  little  woman  was  quick  to  see  the 
traces  of  tears,  but  it  was  not  a  way  of  hers  to  re 
mark  upon  the  emotions  of  her  children.  Above  all, 
she  never  encouraged  weeping. 

"  They  must  learn  to  be  self-contained,"  she  said, — 
"  Sympathy  undermines  self-control.  The  craving 
for  commiseration  is  a  weakness,  a  selfishness."  So 
she  had  been  taught  in  her  own  youth. 

"  Mother,"  said  Annie  abruptly,  in  a  lifeless  tone 
that  showed  she  spoke  from  a  sense  of  duty  and  not 
from  impulse  :  "  I  have  come  to  talk  to  you  about 
something ;  Tom  Hatherton  is  going  to  New  York 
to  make  his  fortune." 

"  Indeed,  I  trust  he  may  be  successful.  Has  thee 
seen  him  lately  ?  " 

"  He  has  just  left.  And  mother,  I  have  promised 
to  wait  for  him." 

"  To  wait  for  him  ? "  echoed  Mrs.  Castlewood, 
startled  out  of  her  poise :  "  And  what  does  thee  mean 
by  that  !  " 


I38  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  To  marry  him,  I  suppose." 

"  To  marry  him  : "  the  echo  annoyed  Annie,  but  she 
made  no  response. 

Her  mother  began  to  sew  again  vigorously,  with  a 
nervous  twitching  of  the  fingers.  She  had  always 
managed  her  husband  and  the  boys — without  their 
knowing  it.  The  girl  seemed  to  see  through  every 
thing,  and  had  never  been  easily  managed.  She 
sewed  on  as  though  nothing  had  interrupted  the  flow 
of  her  spool-cotton. 

"What  do  you  say  about  it  ? "  asked  Annie,  at  last, 
watching  intently  the  rapid  movements  of  the  needle. 

"Is  it  not  rather  late  for  thee  to  ask  me?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  mother.  I  have  only  promised — to  wait." 

"  Which  means  that  thee  has  encouraged  Thomas." 

"  I  have  listened  to  him — yes." 

"  I  did  think,  Annie,  that  thee  would  have  looked 
higher " 

Mrs.  Castlewood  did  not  lift  her  eyes  from  her 
work.  She  felt  awkward  about  betraying  to  her 
daughter  her  secret  hopes  and  ambitions. 

"  Who  is  there  to  look  to,  mother,  in  this  dead- 
and-buried  place  ?  " 

Again  Mrs.  Castlewood  went  on  sewing  before  she 
answered  cautiously, — 

"  It  has  been  made  clear  to  me,  Annie,  that  John 
Wallace " 

But  Annie  would  hear  no  more. 

"  Mother,"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  anger 
in  her  cheeks  and  eyes,  "  never  couple  Mr.  Wallace's 
name  with  mine.  You  might  as  well  plan  to  have  me 
wed  the  Angel  Gabriel !  " 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  139 

Mrs.  Castlewood  was  shocked  : 

"  If  thee  is  going  to  blaspheme,  Annie,  we  had 
better  drop  the  subject.  I  suppose,  if  Thomas  Hath- 
erton  suits  thee,  it  is  no  great  concern  to  thy  father 
and  myself." 

"  He  doesnt  suit  me,"  almost  screamed  poor  Annie, 
with  a  hysterical  burst  of  tears  ;  "  only  there  is  no 
one  else,  and  I  mttst  get  out  of  this  grave." 

"  If  thee  would  control  thy  impetuous  ways,  we 
might  confer  to  some  purpose  in  this  matter." 

Mrs.  Castlewood's  wounded  dignity  was  immense, 
and  she  sat  prim  and  cold  until  Annie's  sobs  had  sub 
sided.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  coldness  was  the  surface 
training  of  her  life.  In  her  heart,  the  mother  was 
bitterly  disappointed.  She  had  had  ambitions  in  her 
youth  which  lifted  her  somewhat  from  the  obscure 
surroundings  of  the  little  Quaker  settlement  in  Rhode 
Island.  But  her  married  life  had  soon  closed  about 
her,  and  she  had  accepted  John  Wallace  as  a  late  re. 
compense,  who  was  to  atone  to  her,  in  still  further 
elevating  her  child,  for  her  own  only  half-satisfied  as 
pirations. 

When  Annie  grew  quiet,  she  began  cautiously  : 

"  Is  it  possible  that  thee  is  proposing  to  marry  a 
man  whom  thee  admits  does  not  suit  thee." 

"  It  is  what  nine-tenths  of  women  do,"  said  Annie 
obstinately ;  "  one  must  marry  somebody." 

(A  sentiment,  dear  reader  which  nearly  every  girl  is 
brought  up  to  have  and  to  hold  ;  but  which  few  will 
utter.  The  rack  could  not  extort  from  some  single 
women  that  they  desire  marriage.) 

"  It  is   <*  godless  thing  to  contemplate,"   said    the 


I4o  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

elder  lady,  genuinely  shocked  at  her  daughter's  senti 
ments  :  "  there  can  no  happiness  come  out  of  it." 

"  Everybody  is  prophesying  against  my  happiness," 
moaned  poor  Annie  deeply  aggrieved. 

"  Everybody  ? — who  knows  of  this  thing  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Wallace." 

"  Then  it  is  too  late  !  Thee  has  made  the  mistake 
of  thy  life !  "  cried  the  mother,  with  suppressed 
anger. 

"  Did  you  suppose  I  would  hide  it  from  him  ?  " 

"  Thee  might  at  least  have  consulted  thy  parents 
first." 

"Tom  told  Mr.  Wallace,  himself." 

"  Doubtless.  He  wished  to  prevent  the  undoing 
of  this  piece  of  folly.  Has  thee  seen  thy  father  ?  " 

"  No — I  will  go  and  fetch  him,"  said  Annie  starting 
up,  glad  to  escape  from  her  mother's  presence. 

"  Every  thing  is  beclouded.  Every  thing  points  to 
misery,"  she  cried  to  herself  as  she  passed  out  of 
doors  :  "  why  cannot  things  come  easily  and  pleasantly 
to  me  ?  This  ought  to  be  a  time  of  congratulations  and 
proud  joy.  Oh  clear,  what  Jiave  I  done  that  I  should 
be  so  miserable  ?  " 

As  no  one  was  near,  Annie  asked  the  wind.  If  the 
wind  could  have  answered,  it  would  have  said  : 

"  Poor  child  !  thou  hast  pledged  thy  hand  where 
thou  hast  never  given  thy  heart.  Thou  art  ask 
ing  for  happiness  to  come  out  of  a  sharn — a  mock 
ery." 

She  ran  through  the  orchard  to  search  for  the  kind 
father  who,  if  he  did  not  quite  understand  her  girlish 
fancies,  had  still  so  tender  a  heart  for  them. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  I4I 

At  last  she  found  him,  in  the  garden,  examining  his 
prospect  for  early  potatoes. 

"  Oh,  father ! "  she  cried,  and  flung  herself  upon 
his  breast  ;  Oh,  father  !  " 

The  good  Squire  was  much  astonished  at  this  de 
monstration  in  his  staid  and  wise  daughter,  who  be 
cause  of  her  self-command  he  often  called  his  "little 
Puritan,"  telling  her  she  resembled  her  pretty  grand 
mother  Prue,  whose  portrait  in  demure  dress  and  cap 
was  greatly  prized  by  the  Castlewoods. 

"  Hoity — toity  !  what  now  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Is  the 
pony  dead  ?  or  have  the  boys  drowned  some  kittens  ?  " 

"  No-o — father  !  but  Tom  wants  me  to  w-w-ait  for 
him  to  c-come  and  ma— marry  me." 

"  Hey  !  what !  Bless  my  soul !  Tom  Hatherton 
wants  to  marry  you  ?  " 

"  Yes — and  I  do-on't  believe  I  w— want  to  ?  " 

Annie's  grief  was  excessive. 

"  You  don't,  'hey ;  well  you  needn't,  you  know, 
Nancy." 

"  Oh — but,  I've  pro-o-mised" 

"Well  now,  don't  cry  my  lass,  Tom's  a  fine  fellow 
and  will  make  a  capital  husband.  But  bless  my  soul  ! 
this  is  all  very  sudden,  isn't  it  ?  very  sudden." 

"  Awfully  sud-sudden,"  sobbed  Annie  burying  her 
face  deeper  in  his  bosom. 

"  Well  there,  lassie,  cheer  up  a  bit  !  You  won't 
have  to  marry  him  suddenly,  you  know.  Bless  me  ! 
you're  a  sight  too  young  these  many  years. 

"  Ye-es— father  !  " 

"And  he's  a  first-rate  fellow.  He'll  make  a  fine 
farmer  yet ;  see  if  he  don't." 


I42  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  No,"  cried  Annie  shaking  her  head  and  weeping  : 
"  he  is  going  to  New  Yo-ork — to  make — his  fortune.'' 

"  The  devil  he  is  !  "  cried  the  dear  old  Squire,  almost 
upsetting  Annie  in  the  suddenness  of  the  surprise — 
"  Oh — so,  so  !  And  that's  the  reason  you're  breaking 
your  little  heart  ?  " 

"  N-not  altogether." 

"  And  what  does  Mr.  Tom  propose  to  do  with 
you  ?  " 

"  I'm  to — wait — until  he  comes  ba-ack?"  wept 
Annie. 

"  With  the  fortune  ?  In  about  six  weeks,  I  sup 
pose  ?  "  and  the  Squire  laughed  uproariously,  glad  to 
have  hit  upon  a  comical  side  to  the  question. 

His  hilarity  did  not  grate  upon  Annie's  nerves  as 
her  mother's  poignant  criticism  and  apparent  want 
of  sympathy  had  done.  It  was  a  contagious  sort  of 
mirth,  and  she  began  to  smile  through  her  tears. 

"That's  right,  Lassie,"  cried  the  father,  who  never 
could  bear  the  distress  of  any  woman,  least  of  all  his 
petted  daughter's  ;  "  There's  nothing  to  break  your 
heart  about.  But  hold  on  !  It  isn't  your  heart  at  all — 
It's  Tom's,  you  know."  And  the  kind  old  gentleman 
laughed  as  heartily  as  before,  giving  Annie  a  sly 
squeeze  under  the  ribs  to  indicate  where  Tom's  organ 
was  kept. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Father,"  Annie  asked, 
almost  merry  again.  It  was  such  a  comfort  to  have 
some  one  take  it  naturally  :  not  ominously  as  Mr. 
Wallace  had  done,  nor  mournfully,  like  her  mother. 
After  all,  the  sunshine  might  break  through  the 
cloud. 


THE  SHA  DOW  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE.  1 43 

"  I  think  it  couldn't  be  better,  Nancy  ;  it  couldn't 
be  better.  I  always  said  Tom  would  come  out  and 
do  something  to  scare  us  all.  His  father  is  such  a 
trump  !  And  you  will  make  a  first  rate  little  farmer's 

wife ah,  no !  I  forgot — a  first  rate  little  fortune's 

wife  ;  "  and  the  great  guffaws  broke  out  afresh. 

"  Now  you  are  making  fun  of  me,  father,"  cried 
Annie,  making  believe  to  be  hurt,  but  nestling  close 
to  him  meanwhile. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  my  dear  ;  you're  all  right,  and  so 
is  Tom  Hatherton.  It's  the  fortune  !  "  The  squire 
had  to  prop  himself  against  a  tree-trunk  to  enjoy  his 
laugh.  Whether  this  mirthfulness  was  altogether  un 
alloyed,  may  be  questioned. 

"  But  Father,"  said  Annie,  rubbing  her  soft  cheek 
against  his  whiskers,  "  people  do  make  fortunes  in 
New  York,  don't  they  ?  " 

"  Of  course  they  do,  my  dear !  No  doubt  about  it ! 
And  then  you  see,  the  other  Governor  and  I  can  help 
him  out  handsomely  on  it." 

His  eyes  twinkled  comically,  and  they  began  stroll 
ing  towards  the  house : 

"  Come  Lass,"  he  said  presently  ;  "  we'll  go  and 
scare  mother  a  bit." 

Annie  hung  back. 

"  Mother  knows,"  she  said,  briefly  :  "You  go  and 
talk  it  over  with  her,  father  dear."  And  giving  him 
a  kiss  which  he  returned  with  a  hearty  embrace,  she 
vanished  to  her  own  upper  chamber,  and  to  who 
knows  what  despondence  and  humiliation. 

For  she  was  certainly  likely  to  commit  that  rash 
act  from  which  her  own  conscience  recoiled  no  less 


I44  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

than  all  her  preconceived  notions  of  sentiment  and 
bliss, — she  had  promised  to  hold  herself  subject  to  a 
man  for  whom,  in  searching  her  uttermost  heart,  she 
found  no  passion. 

And  we  ? — what  shall  we  say  of  Annie  and  her  ac 
quiescence  to  Tom  Hatherton's  wooing  ?  Doubtless, 
we  are  disappointed,  and  disposed  to  view  the  matter 
somewhat  after  the  manner  of  Martha  Castlewood. 

Perhaps  there  is  nothing  more  unfair  in  this  world 
of  misconceptions, — intentional,  and  unintentional, — 
than  the  quiet  assurance  with  which  we  each  and  all 
judge  our  neighbors'  actions.  We  have  only  the  re 
sults  of  their  reasoning,  to  be  sure,  and  cannot  take 
into  account  the  motives  which  have  influenced  them, 
or  the  amount  of  pressure  that  has  been  brought  to 
bear  upon  them.  But  that  is  no  matter.  They  do  an 
unexpected  thing  ;  or  they  leave  undone  an  expected 
one,  and  we  forthwith  pursue  them  with  over  criti 
cisms,  more  or  less  scathing — not  according  to  the 
merits  of  the  case,  but  our  own  mood,  or  the  state  of 
our  own  digestion. 

These  criticisms  do  not  follow  their  actions  afar 
off,  with  a  respectful  sense  of  everybody's  right  to  his 
own  conduct  ;  but  we — (not  thou  or  I  dear  reader, 
but  friends  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  whom  let 
us  call  "  we,"  for  courtesy) — dog  their  heels  with  our 
comments,  and  hound  them  up  and  down  with  our 
opinions. 

And  so  we  must  needs  make  up  our  minds  about 
the  propriety  of  Annie  Castlewood's  acceptance  of 
her  lover.  Only  do,  in  pity's  name,  let  us  take  into 
consideration  the  circumstances  of  her  life.  Let  us 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  145 

sit  down  calmly  and  ponder  upon  the  dead  level  of 
monotony  to  which  destiny  had  doomed  her.  Let  us 
reflect  upon  the  forever  unsatisfied  impulses  of  a  na 
ture  which  ardently  craved  those  changes  and  chances 
that  make  up  the  sum  of  most  lives. 

Moreover,  recollect  the  influence  over  her  of  a  man 
whose  wide  experience  had  tried  all  things.  His 
campanionship  had  opened  to  her  the  door  unto  much 
upon  which  he  himself  had  turned  his  back. 

Then,  as  Annie  said  ;  there  was  no  one  else  ! 

After  all,  dear  Reader, — in  whose  eyes  I  somehow 
seem  to  feel  it  necessary  to  vindicate  Annie  Castle- 
wood  from  possible  censure the  child  was  not 

selling  her  soul  for  gold,  or  for  position,  or  for 
spite.  She  was  doing  no  violence  to  any  prejudice  ; 
she  was  not  even  strangling  another  passion  which 
has  been  withheld  from  this  quiet  story.  She  was 
merely  taking  the  best  that  her  life  was  likely  to 
offer  her,  thereby  fulfilling  in  a  most  natural  way 
that  inexorable  law  of  "  the  commonplace,"  which  is  a 
perpetual  mockery  upon  the  romance  of  youth  and 
the  belated  aspirations  of  middle  life.  It  is  a  law 
which  over-rides  all  prejudices,  and  tramples  down  all 
passions,  compassing  itself  in  the  very  lives  of  those 
who  scorn  and  deny  it. 


CHAPTER  XL 

A    BRIEF    CALM. 

"  What  if  he  gained  thus  much, 

Wrung  out  this  sweet  drop  from  the  bitter  Past, 

Bore  off  this  rosebud  from  the  prickly  brake 
To  justify  such  torn  clothes  and  scratched  hands  ; 

And,  after  all,  brought  something  back  from  Rome." 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

PERCHANCE  the  meager  supply  of  heroines — a  little 
Quaker  woman,  a  young  country  girl,  a  phantom, — 
may  strike  the  critic  as  a  strange  paucity  of  very  cheap 
material.  And  yet  it  was  characteristic  of  a  man  like 
John  Wallace — if  there  was  ever  such  another  man, — 
whose  spirit  dwelt  apart  from  other  spirits  as  a  recluse, 
that  he  should  live  for  thirty  years  in  the  little  Island 
town,  and  yet  make  no  woman  his  heroine. 

Indeed  it  may  be  seen  that  this  story  has  throughout 
but  a  slim  corps  of  dramatis  persona  ;  and  that  even 
those  few  actors  play  but  a  subordinate  role.  The 
hero  looms  up  and  overshadows  with  his  majestic 
presence  any  part  left  to  less  important  players,  how 
ever  simple  he  may  wish  his  life  to  appear,  and  how 
ever  profoundly  he  would  bury  the  secret  locked  in 
his  bosom.  We  cannot  in  any  event  fancy  him  sitting 
unobserved  at  a  side-scene,  watching  with  interest  the 
actions  of  any  inhabitant  of  Rest-Hampton.  Still  less 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  l^ 

can  we  imagine  ourselves,  the  self-constituted  audience 
for  the  time-being,  permitting  him  so  to  sit  forgotten, 
while  we  become  absorbed  in  the  convergence  of 
events  which  have  no  bearing  upon  our  ultimate 
decision  regarding  him. 

Wherever  a  creature  of  this  peculiar  stamp  may 
abide,  he  unconsciously  becomes  a  centre  about  whom 
all  approximating  figures  revolve,  like — shall  we 
ignore  the  old  metaphor  of  a  planet  and  its  satellites 
and  say — the  puppets  at  a  country  show  ? 

Only  Annie  Castlewood  was  no  puppet.  One  could 
tell  pretty  well  how  the  little  Quaker  woman  would 
move  upon  her  narrow  and  self-absorbed  base  ;  it  is 
not  difficult  to  divine  by  what  strings  the  good  Squire 
could  be  worked  ;  Tom  Hatherton,  too,  was  not  a 
person  of  deep  designs  and  unaccountable  proceedings. 
There  are  others  who  come  upon  the  stage  with  but  a 
clumsy  mental  mechanism  to  approach  their  ends. 
But  Annie's  was  a  complex  nature.  You  could  not 
calculate  beforehand  how  a  mind  of  such  varied  moods 
was  to  be  affected  by  even  the  ordinary  wire-pulling 
of  village  life. 

Brought  into  contact  with  the  overcharged  forces 
of  John  Wallace's  character  ;  her  whole  being  became 
the  medium  for  currents  of  attraction  and  repulsion 
which  swayed  her  quite  involuntarily  to  herself,  and 
with  a  sense  of  some  dissatisfaction  to  her  friends. 
She  did  not  pretend  to  understand  herself ;  still  less 
did  she  undertake  to  comprehend  Mr  Wallace,  whose 
inner  life  was  remote  from  her  experience  as  the 
smouldering  crater  of  Mount  Vesuvius.  Indeed,  he 
affected  her  oftentimes — this  man  of  calm  demeanor 


I48  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

and  lovely  silence, — as  one  is  affected  by  the  lull  of  a 
half  extinct  volcano  beneath  a  peaceful  sky.  The 
force  of  those  upheavals,  the  law  of  those  fires  which 
preceding  the  calm,  are  as  uncomprehended  by  us  as 
though  they  had  never  belched  forth  their  fury  and 
obliterated  the  summer  peace.  *  * 

Tom  Hatherton,  who  has  gained  something  in 
effect  by  being  withdrawn  from  contrast  with  Annie's 
hero,  has  been  for  several  months  in  New  York ;  and 
life  has  gone  on  undisturbed  at  Rest-Hampton.  The 
small  pebble  of  the  lad's  departure  had  made,  at  first, 
a  great  ripple  on  its  tranquil  waters,  Many  were  the 
frowning  looks  flung  upon  "  the  Squire's  lass  "  by  the 
village  belles,  who  had  each  thought  her  own  charms 
might  prevail  against  her  as  a  final  choice.  For 
Supervisor  Hatherton  was  well-to-do ;  and  Tom  was 
regarded  as  a  fine  match  in  those  parts. 

By  some  unlucky  combination  of  circumstances  it 
often  happens  that  there  are  but  few  marriageable 

young  men  in  a  small  village,  while  the  maidens 

well,  all  maidens  are  marriageable ! 

A  great  story  of  sudden  wooing  and  hasty  departure 
was  told  and  retold.  There  were  new  predictions  set 
afloat ;  that  Tom  would  come  to  no  good  in  the  great 
wicked  city  ;  or  that  if  he  got  the  fortune,  he  might 
never  come  back  to  fetch  Nancy  Castlewood  ;  or  that 
if  he  came  back  at  all,  she  would  still  be  "  fooling  her 
fancies  away  "  upon  Mr.  Wallace. 

Annie  went  calmly  on  her  way,  studying  a  little  less 
perhaps,  (for  since  her  talk  with  Tom  she  had  let  go 
her  vital  hold  upon  self-culture  as  a  hobby.)  but  work 
ing  now  and  then  among  what  the  whole  village  called 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  i^g 

"  Mr.  Wallace's  poor  folks."  If  we  could  follow  her 
up  and  down  these  by-ways,  the  study  of  a  crude  and 
honest  and  self-supporting  race  might  form  a  strong 
background  to  throw  out  the  more  delicate  pencillings 
of  our  plot.  "  Amphibious  "  has  been  applied  to  the 
sturdy  villagers  ;  and  justly,  since  they  farm  and  fish, 
toiling  on  the  land  or  on  the  sea,  as  the  necessity 
calls. 

There  came  from  time  to  time  somewhat  labored 
epistles  from  the  absent  lad.  Like  most  country-bred 
youths,  he  had  no  great  liking  for  such  a  sedentary  oc 
cupation  as  letter-writing  :  "  I  would  rather  break  a 
colt  than  write  a  letter,  any  time,"  he  wrote.  In  fact, 
in  his  hand,  a  pen  was  nearly  as  clumsy  as  a  plough, 
and  its  guidance  was  quite  as  warm  work. 

Every  time  he  forwarded  one  of  these  performances, 
he  had  "struck  a  new  thing  which  was  bound  to  come 
to  something."  Each  new  "  something  "  covered  the 
ignominious  slip-up  of  the  last.  Poor  Tom  !  his  was 
a  record  that  many  an  untried  youth  has  kept  since  ! 

Finally,  after  many  mischances,  he  wrote — in  a  hand 
now  considerably  modified,  by  contact  with  new 
demands,  that  he  had  "  found  something  certain  this 
time,  and  it  was  all  settled." 

But  after  another  six  months,  even  Tom  began  to 
despond,  and  just  when  the  poor  fellow  was  ready  to 
throw  up  his  manly  endeavor — for  he  declined  to  accept 
aid  from  his  "  folks," — he  did  actually  happen  upon  "  a 
sure  thing."  If  this  story  had  not  its  sails  set  in  an 
other  direction,  it  would  be  both  pleasant  and  pathetic 
to  follow  the  brave  lad  in  the  uncertain  steering 
through  his  sometimes  stormy  and  sometimes  becalmed 


150  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

voyage  of  discovering  for  himself  the  difficult  haven 
of  a  "  fortune." 

There  were  usual  wanderings,  blunderings  and  dis 
appointments  ;  there  were  some  impositions,  too,  from 
which  he  suffered.  Once  he  was  swindled  out  of  his 
last  dollar  and  left  upon  the  mercy  of  picking  up  job- 
work  for  a  month.  It  was  the  next  thing  to  being  a 
day-laborer.  Still,  the  young  fellow  had  plenty  of 
pluck,  plenty  of  grit,  and  kept  up  his  courage  manfully. 
He  was  not  above  day-laborer's  hire,  if  the  worst 
came.  Only  Annie  must  not  know.  It  might  distress 
her  to  follow  his  struggles  towards  self-support.  For, 
strange  to  say,  Tom's  jealousy  about  his  sweetheart 
had  all  vanished.  He  was  such  a  trusting  fellow, 
that  it  was  not  possible  for  him  to  conceive  of  in 
fidelity.  He  actually  believed  that  she  loved  him. 

Annie  had  promised.  That  was  enough.  She  was 
his,  and  he  would  have  trusted  her  unhesitatingly  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  something  very  like 
despair  took  hold  of  Tom  Hatherton,  struggling  alone 
against  the  overwhelming  tides  of  the  vast  selfish, 
money-making  city. 

He  had  spent  a  mentally  starved — perhaps  a 
physically  hungry,  who  knows  ? — week,  in  dogging 
faint  hopes  and  poor  chances  from  end  to  end  of  the 
utmost  limit  his  opportunities  had  offered  him. 

When  Saturday  night  came  around  again,  he  shrank 
back  to  his  comfortless  lodging  (for  which  he  had 
owed  his  needy  landlady  many  a  week  ;  and  it  nearly 
killed  him  to  know  that  she  was  needy) — the  picture 
of  hopeless  misery,  the  shadow  of  his  buoyant  self. 


THE  SNA  DO  W  OF  JOHN  WA  LLA  CE      l  $  T 

He  stood  by  his  dirty  window,  looking  over  the  dark 
roofs  into  the  faintly-lit  street,  wondering  as  many 
another  shipwrecked  man  has  done,  if  ever  the  fates 
would  again  turn  friendly  faces  upon  him. 

"  If  I  had  a  pistol,  "  he  muttered,"  I  believe  I  would 

shoot  myself  and  be  done  with  it God  forgive 

me !  " 

And  John  Wallace,  sitting  apart  in  far-away  little 
Rest-Hampton,  had  so  withdrawn  from  the  turmoil  of 
life  that  the  ears  of  his  spirit  were  open  in  some 
mysterious  fashion  to  that  bitter  cry. 

He  had  been  reflecting  much  of  late  upon  Tom's 
courageous  endeavors  to  make  a  home  for  Annie 
Castlewood  ;  and  his  possible  hard  luck  was  not  unsus 
pected.  The  young  man  was  proving  himself  worthy 
even  of  his  little  favorite.  Besides,  who  was  he  that  he 
had  dared  choose  for  the  girl  ?  She  and  her  lover  were 
untried.  Their  desires  were  innocent.  Their  hearts 
were  fresh.  They  had  hope  still  by  the  hand.  He  had 
only  memory.  How  then  was  he  fit  to  choose  ? 

Gradually,  the  picture  of  a  united  destiny  for  these 
two  young  creatures  began  to  shape  itself  before  his 
gentle  fancy.  Then  he  grew  solicitous  for  Tom.  In 
his  wisdom  he  read  between  the  boy's  brave  lines,  and 
saw  an  undercurrent  of  disappointment  and  humilia 
tion. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said  to  himself,  "if  I  go  to  him,  I 
can  be  of  use.  The  lad  may  be  in  actual  want.  I  am 

J 

an  unknown  man  "  — he  paused  with  a  strange  sad 
smile  flickering  across  his  face — "  but  money  is  a 
power,  and  I  may  be  able  to  buy  with  bank-notes 
what  I  could  not  command  with  influence." 


!  £  2  THE  SNA  DO  W  OF  JOHN  WA  LLA  CE. 

And  so, — after  the  wretched  empty  Sunday  had 
dragged  itself  away,  and  Tom  had  gone  back  again 
and  again  restlessly  to  the  thought  of  the  pistol  until 
he  coveted  one  more  than  food  all  that  dinnerless  day, 
on  Monday  morning,  before  the  sun  had  fairly  crept 
above  the  dingy  roofs,  that  other  stood  before  him,  a 
very  angel  of  light. 

"I  thought  I  would  come  down  and  bring  you 
Annie's  love  to  cheer  you  up,"  was  all  that  he  said. 

But  by  some  inward  perception,  Tom  understood. 
Moreover  he  never  forgot  the  relief  of  that  instant, 
when  he  felt  at  last  his  relaxing  fingers,  that  had  let 
go  one  by  one  the  straws  of  hope,  clasped  in  a  strong 
and  saving  hand. 

Mr.  Wallace  was  not  omnipotent ;  but  he  had  lived 
in  the  business  world  once,  and  he  knew  the  back 
doors  to  its  favor.  He  spent  freely,  and  considered 
wisely  ;  and  at  last  the  young  man  was  carried  within 
the  notice  of  one  or  two  merchants  who  (even  in  great 
wicked  New  York  towards  which  remote  little  Rest- 
Hampton  looked  in  such  horror  and  dread)  could 
value  an  uncontaminated  mind  and  a  genuine  purpose. 
They  wanted  integrity  rather  than  ability,  and  soon 
Mr.  Thomas  Hatherton  had  a  little  branch  office  for 
a  well-known  firm,  in  the  center  of  a  crowded  business 
locality.  It  seemed  to  him, — -what  wonder  ? — the 
very  center  of  the  world  from  which  all  purpose 
gravitated. 

Then,  at  long  last,  he  wrote  Annie  proudly  in  a 
fairly  business-like  hand,  that  he  had  "  set  up  for 
himself,"  and  was  beginning  to  make  his  way  in  the 
world. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  IS3 

"  I  shall  soon  come  to  fetch  you,  now,  Nancy,"  he 
added,  his  hand  almost  trembling  with  happiness. 

Was  Annie  glad  ?  She  tried  to  believe  so  ;  for  she 
had  a  loyal  heart,  that  never  once,  since  that  first  tu 
multuous  day,  had  permitted  her  to  question  the  policy 
of  the  promise  she  had  made. 

As  a  result,  there  settled  gradually  upon  her  un 
quiet  soul,  a  sweet  peace  : — or  was  it  only  a  lull  ? 

She  had  said  to  herself  in  the  beginning, — 

"  I  must  steadfastly  turn  my  heart  away  from  ideals. 
I  must  stand  up  and  take  my  future  in  my  two 
hands  and  say  'for  this  alone,  Hive?'  If  once  I  should 
sink  into  the  depths  of  repining,  I  am  lost." 

And  so  she  had  passed  safely  over  the  shoals,  hav 
ing  set  her  mind  upon  the  haven.  She  wandered 
about  like  one  in  a  pleasant  dream.  Under  the 
deep  shade  of  the  familiar  trees,  among  the  pleasant 
grasses  and  friendly  field-flowers,  she  came  and  went. 
If  there  was  no  dazzling  radiance  of  new-born  love 
upon  her  path,  at  least  there  were  no  defined  shadows. 
Her  daily  life,  as  it  pictured  itself  to  her  own  fancy, 
was  all  in  quiet,  restful  tones  that  seemed  to  promise 
a  future  undisturbed'  by  violent  lights  or  shades. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

JOHN  WALLACE'S  RELIGION. 

"  But  I,  most  privileged  to  see  a  saint 
Of  old  when  such  walked  earth  with  crown  and  palm, 
If  I  call  "  saint""  what  saints  call  something  else — 
The  Saints  must  bear  with  me," 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

MR.  WALLACE'S  trip  to  New  York  was  one  of  the 
"  flittings  "  he  made  of  which  no  one  knew  the  pur 
port.  Annie,  in  her  new-found  serenity,  was  as  un 
conscious  of  it  as  she  was  of  her  lover's  day  of  peril. 

The  older  man's  consciousness  seemed  untouched 
by  any  changes  of  her  mood.  So  it  was  ordained. 
For  what  had  the  child  been  to  him  ?  A  sunbeam 
that  had  crossed  his  solitary  shadowland.  A  singing 
bird  that  had  fluttered  in  upon  his  cage  and  tasted  of 
the  food  the  inexorable  gods  had  provided  for  him. 
A  stray  blossom  that  had  fallen  upon  his  breast  and 
been  plucked  away,  like  all  else,  from  his  great  need. 
A  cloud — it  may  have  been — across  the  vision  of  his 
snow-white  soul. 

His  days  went  on,  and  it  seemed  as  though  he  knew 
no  loss.  His  mind  was  busied  with  a  plan  that  was 
to  work  good  in  the  island  community.  His  reveries, 
that  had  been  but  broken  and  intangible  reflections, 


THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE.  155 

began  to  take  form  and  adapt  themselves  to  the  neces 
sities  about  him.  Whether  he  had  come  to  transfer 
to  the  little  village  of  his  adoption  his  real  interests ; 
or  whether  he  had  felt  painfully  in  the  unmitigated 
Puritan  settlement,  the  need  of  his  own  church,  he  now 
began  to  contemplate  the  building  of  a  chapel  where 
he  might  participate  once  more  in  that  Service  dear  to 
every  English  churchman's  heart.  The  people  of  the 
town  were  dissenters,  to  his  way  of  thinking,  and  the 
rigid  outline  of  their  inflexible  faith  was  to  him  an 
austere  and  forbidding  form  of  worship.  He  was  a 
liberal  man,  and  attended  regularly  the  "  preaching  " 
in  the  place,  giving  largely  to  its  support.  But,  like 
Martha  Castlewood,  he  was  not  "  at  home  "  among 
the  Presbyterians.  Many  were  the  talks  which  these 
two  persons  of  diametrically  opposite  bringing-up  held 
on  the  subject  of  creeds,  and  schisms,  and  dogmas  ;  and 
the  narrow  mind  of  the  woman  grew  and  expanded 
beneath  his  broadening  influence.  It  was  to  Annie, 
however,  that  he  first  intimated  his  intention  of  build 
ing  a  church. 

One  afternoon, — a  mild  and  peaceful  day  in  the  late 
summer — he  came  upon  her  as  she  sat  beneath  an  old 
riven  tree  in  the  orchard,  over  which  a  climbing  rose 
made  splendid  riot.  She  had  been  reading  Tom's 
last  letter,  and  held  it  meditatively  in  her  hand. 
"  Nancy,"  it  said.  "  I  am  coming  for  you — soon." 
Tom  was  certainly  improving,  she  admitted.  But  this 
man  who  slowly  approached  her,  with  his  courtly  mien 
and  his  saintly  face — how  different  he  was  !  how  in 
comparable  ! 

"  Annie,"    he  said,   seating    himself  on   the  fallen 


156  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

trunk  beside   her,  "  have  you  ever   thought  of  other 
modes  of  worship  than  your  own  ?  " 

The  question  would  have  been  abrupt  to  one  less 
in  harmony  with  Mr.  Wallace's  thought.  Annie,  as 
we  have  said,  was  never  surprised.  It  at  no  time  oc 
curred  to  her  that  her  friend  was  "peculiar  ;" — that 
indefinable  and  often  meaningless  stigma  which  has 
injured  many  an  original  thinker. 

"  Do  you  mean  the  heathen,  who  worship  idols  ?  " 
she  asked  naively. 

Mr.  Wallace  laughed  pleasantly. 

"  No  ; — only  the  differences  of  creed — or  rather  of 
creed-form, — which  divide  the  Protestant  church  into 
a  score  or  so  of  sects.  You  did  not  suppose  the  whole 
Christian  world  lay  in  Presbyterianism,  did  you  ?  " 

"  I  believe,"  said  Annie,  smiling,  "  that  I  have 
never  thought  much  about  it.  There  is  no  other  sect 
here,  you  know." 

"  This  is  certainly  a  staunch  community  of  loyal 
Puritans,"  Mr.  Wallace  remarked. 

"Tell  me  about  the  others,  please." 

And  resting  her  elbow  upon  her  knee,  and  her  chin 
upon  her  palm,  Annie  was  composed  for  listening. 

"  You  must  ply  me  with  questions.  I  don't  want 
to  begin  at  the  Reformation  with  '  Once  upon  a  time 
there  was  a  golden  epoch  when  sectarianism  was  un 
known  ! '  For,  in  fact,  that  was  not  a  golden  time  at 
all,  but  full  of  turmoil  and  controversy." 

"What  shall  I  ask?"  The  girl  hesitated  ;  for  the 
tangled  sophistries  of  scientific  and  all  other  sorts  of 
infidelity,  were  unknown  to  her 

"  Tell  me  the  names  of  a  lot  of  sects,"  Annie  pur- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  157 

sued.  "  I  know  several  to  start  with  : — the  Presby 
terian,  of  course  ;  and  the  Methodist  church  at  Bridge- 
Hampton  ;  of  my  mother's  sect,  I  have  some  faint 
notion  ;  and  there  are  the  Roman  Catholics  at  Sag 
Harbor.'1 

"  And  what  will  you  do  with  England  ? "  asked  her 
companion,  amused  at  the  girl's  limited  category. 

"  Oh !  the  Church  of  England,  of  course  !  How 
could  I  be  so  stupid?  Tell  me  about  it,  Mr.  Wallace. 
It  was — or  no!"  she  broke  off  perplexed:  "Is  not 
the  Presbyterian  church  the  Church  of  Scotland  ? " 
She  colored  as  she  referred  to  the  difference  of  nation 
ality,  which  still  was  to  her  a  memorable  piece  of  in 
formation. 

"  Yes — it  is  so  called  ;  but  what  were  you  going  to 
ask  ?  " 

"  If  the  Church  of  England  was  \\Q\.  your  church." 

"  Yes,  it  is  my  church,"  with  a  scarcely  perceptible 
emphasis  on  the  indicative  present.  "I  am  not  a 
bigoted  Scotchman.  I  love  the  Anglican  Church,  and 
have  never  been  inside  of  one  of  those  noble  Protes 
tant  cathedrals,  without  the  great  glad  thought  going 
up  as  an  impulse  from  my  heart.  "  Lord,  I  love  t/ic 
habitation  of  tJiy  house" 

"How  you  must  have  missed  it!"  cried  Annie, 
watching  sympathizingly  the  lighting  up  of  his  sensi 
tive  eyes. 

"  I  do  miss  it,"  he  answered  simply,  again  uncon 
sciously  correcting  her  mood  and  tense  :  "  It  is  the 
greatest  of  my  deprivations." 

Annie  looked  earnestly  at  the  masterful  face,  sha 
dowed  with  its  forever  unspoken  grief :  and  a  pang 


I58  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOILV  WALLACE. 

smote  her  heart  that,  while  she  had  been  with  this 
man,  living  upon  his  generous  out-giving  nature,  she 
had  thought  so  little  about  the  sorrow  or  trouble  which 
had  driven  him  from  his  own.  It  did  not,  for  the 
moment,  occur  to  her  that  John  Wallace  had  so  willed 
it  that  she  should  forget  to  question.  It  seemed  sel 
fishness  that  had  kept  her  brooding  over  her  own 
trivial  affairs.  So  she  spoke  out  impulsively, — 

"Ah,  Mr.  Wallace!  How  could  you  leave  your 
church,  your  home — all  of  it — to  come  here  ?  " 

Instantly  there  was  revulsion.  Annie  was  frightened 
at  her  own  boldness.  Never  had  she  seen  so  in 
scrutable  a  look  upon  the  face  that  had  showed  her 
many  emotions. 

After  a  brief  pause,  he  said  gently, — 

"  That  is  a  question,  my  dear  child,  which  would 
be  most  difficult  to  answer.  There  are  many  reasons 
which  cause  a  man  to  uproot  his  existence  and  trans 
plant  it  in  stranger  places  than  this." 

"  Oh — I  know  !  I  did  not  mean  to  question  you,  sir. 
I  only  meant  to — to — sympathize  with  you  ! "  cried 
the  girl,  in  real  consternation. 

"  I  understood  you  perfectly,"  he  answered,  smiling 
reassuringly  upon  her. 

She  hastened  to  revert  to  the  former  subject. 

"  I  have  never  heard  the  service  of  your  church. 
Oh,  Mr.  Wallace  !  it  is  dreadful  never  to  have  been 
more  than  a  dozen  miles  from  this  little  town  ! " 

"  How  unrelenting  you  are,  Nancy,  to  this  pretty 
little  Village  of  Peace."  (It  was  John  Wallace  who  first 
called  it  "the  village  of  peace,"  let  us  hope  that  he 
found  peace  there  !  ) 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  l$r) 

"  Where  did  you  get  the  revolt  that  is  in  you  against 
the  simplicity  and  sanctity  of  your  birth-place." 

"  From  my  mother,  I  think,"  she  answered  briefly : 
"  but  please  tell  me  what  they  do  in  your  church  ?  Or 
what  they  believe,  rather." 

"  They  do  many  things  in  a  devout  spirit  :  they  be 
lieve  much,  with  their  hearts." 

"  They  wear  gowns  ;  and  have  candles  and  altars, 
like  the  Catholics,  don't  they  ?"  Annie  felt  her  way 
vaguely  back  to  what  she  had  read  of  English 
Churches. 

"  They  do  many  of  those  things,  which  belong  to 
the  symbolic  side  of  worship,  and  which  I  should  be 
sorry  to  forego.  They  make  the  service  of  God  at 
once  the  most  humbling  and  exalting  act  of  the  hu 
man  soul.  They  make  religion  not  only  necessary, 
but  beautiful.  Listen,  Annie," — 

He  drew  from  an  inner  pocket  an  exquisite  little 
book,  bound  in  ivory  mounted  with  gold,  upon  which 
was  carved  and  inlaid  the  crest  of  the  seal  ring.  In 
side,  there  were  brilliant  and  delicate  decorations  and 
illuminations  upon  its  parchment  pages  which  made 
the  tiny  volume  resemble  an  old  missal. 

"  How  lovely  !  "  cried  Annie  taking  it  in  her  hand  ; 
"  Can  you  buy  books  like  that,  Mr.  Wallace  ?  " 

"  Not  often  :  I  had  it  illuminated  myself,  It  is  done 
on  vellum,  and  copied  from  the  style  of  missal-painting 
of  the  thirteenth  or  fourteenth  century." 

"  Do  you  always  carry  it  ?" 

"  Always.  I  am  much  attached  to  it.  I  should  like 
it  buried  with  mf,  Annie." 

He  did  not  look  at  her  ;  but  at  that  moment  the 


i6o  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

young  girl  felt  that  she  had  received  a  sacred  com 
mission. 

"  And  what  is  the  crest  upon  it  ?  " 

"  That," — the  scholar  paused — "  is  one  of  the  things 
which  mean  nothing,  in  America." 

He  was  turning  over  the  leaves,  slowly,  and  presently 
read  in  that  wonderful  voice  which  none  ever  forgot 
who  heard  it : 

"Almighty  and  most  merciful  Father  ;  we  have  erred,  and 
strayed  from  Ihy  ways  like  lost  sheep.  We  have  followed  too 
much  the  devices  and  desires  of  our  own  hearts.  We  have  offen 
ded  against  Thy  holy  laws.  We  have  left  undone  those  things 
which  we  ought  to  have  done :  and  we  have  done  those  things 
which  we  ought  not  to  have  done.  And  there  is  no  health  in 
us."  .  .  . 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Annie,  enchanted,  although  perhaps 
with  the  majestic  voice  as  much  as  with  the  majestic 
words  ;  "  how  beautiful  it  is  !  Somehow  I  hear  chant 
ing,  but  the  sounds  are  not  like  human  voices." 

"  The  chanting  of  the  church  is  from  two  choirs  of 
young  boys,  with  voices  like  angels,  who  call  back  and 
forth  to  each  other  in  strange  old-world  music,  the 
words  of  the  Psalms.  It  is  called  singing  anti- 
phonally." 

Then  Mr.  Wallace  read  on,  turning  the  pages  at 
random  : 

"  Remember  not,  Lord,  our  offenses,  nor  the  offenses  of  our 
forefathers :  neither  take  Thou  vengeance  of  our  sins  :  spare  us, 
good  Lord,  spare  Thy  people,  whom  Thou  hast  redeemed  with 
Thy  precious  blood,  and  be  not  angry  with  us  forever" 

Then  shall  the  people  respond  and  cry  with  one 
voice. 

"  Spare  us,  Good  Lord 7" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  161 

"  I  can  see,"  said  Annie,  her  face  becoming  suffused 
with  a  sudden  glow,  "  a  great,  dim-lighted  edifice,  so 
large  and  so  dim  that  you  cannot  distinguish  from  one 
end  to  the  other.  It  twinkles  all  above  with  hundreds 
of  lights,  like  stars  :  and  below  a  vast  assembly  of 
people  are  waiting  on  their  knees  in  breathless  silence. 
Upon  an  elevated  platform,  about  which  is  a  dividing 
rail,  there  stands  a  minister  of  God,  clothed  in  white, 
in  whose  face  is  a  great  light ;  he  lifts  up  his  hands 
—I  cannot  hear  what  he  says — and  the  whole  multi 
tude  of  human  beings  is  bowed  down,  as  if  swept  over 
by  a  great  wave  of  prayer  : — Oh,  Mr.  Wallace  !  "  cried 
the  girl  excitedly,  with  a  strange  terrified  look — "  it  is 
you  that  I  see  !  " 

Had  John  Wallace  raised  his  hands  ?  or  was  it  only 
in  her  vivid  imagination  that  she  saw  his  figure  el 
evated  before  the  silently  prostrate  throng,  his  ex 
quisite  head  bowed  also,  and  the  celestial  light  in  his 
face  ? 

She  gazed  at  him  breathlessly.  No — he  was  not 
clothed  inwhite:  his  hands  were  not  raised.  Only  in 
his  face  was  the  great  light. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  in  a  Cathedral,  child,"  he 
asked  looking  curiously  at  her. 

"  No,"  said  Annie,  "  never  before.  Did  you  not 
describe  it  to  me — once  ?  "  she  was  looking  puzzled 
and  still  somewhat  terrified,  with  a  clairvoyant  gleam 
scintillating  in  her  eyes. 

"  It  was  before  me  very  clearly  when  you  spoke," 
he  quietly  remarked.  "  Very  likely  the  picture  carried 
its  impression  to  your  brain.  Such  things  will  hap 
pen." 


l(,2  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

Then  John  Wallace  read  on,  through  the  all-cover 
ing  supplications  of  the  grand  old  Litany,  in  the  same 
hushed  tone  that  would  have  been  tremulous,  but  for 
its  masterful  steadying. 

"  Son  of  God,  we  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us  ! 

"  O  Lamb  of  God  who  takest  away  tJie  sins  of  tlte 
world  ! 

"  Grant  us  Thy  peace  ! — Have  mercy  upon  us  !  " 

After  a  pause,  in  which  Annie  sat  with  wet  eyes, 
he  read  the  passionate  praises  of  the  Tc  Deum  Lau- 
damus. 

"  It  is  like  voices  crying  in  the  wilderness,"  she 
said. 

"  Yes ;  Vox  clamantis  in  deserto parate  viam  Domini  ; 
it  is  the  Bible  set  to  music,  from  first  to  last.  There 
are  no  theories  of  men  in  this  little  book,  Annie.  All 
of  its  dogmas  are  pure,  unadulterated  gospel."  And 
the  impressive  voice  took  up,  farther  along,  the  won 
derful  thread  of  devotion  that  has  swayed  men  and 
women  since  Christ's  kingdom  was  : 

"  O  be  joyful  in  the  Lord,  all  ye  lands  :  serve  the 
Lord  with  gladness,  and  come  before  His  presence 
with  a  song.  .  .  .  For  tJie  Lord  is  gracious.  His  mercy 
is  everlasting  ;  and  His  truth  cndurethfrom  generation 
to  generation" 

"  We  all  have  the  same  creed,  thank  God  !  "  said 
John  Wallace  devoutly.  "  Christians  never  differ 
there." 

"And  what  comes — afterwards?"  Annie  asked, 
still  enraptured  with  the  new  revelation  she  was  re 
ceiving. 

"  Afterwards  ? — while  the  Ten  Commandments  are 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  ^3 

uttered  there  is  from  some  unseen  place  the  low 
monotone,  or  progressive  harmony  of  a  distant  organ 
— you  have  never  heard  an  organ,  child.  Some  day, 
when  you  go  to  New  York,  you  will  hear  one.  And 
in  response  to  each  one  of  those  commands  so  simple 
to  repeat,  so  difficult  to  keep,  the  people  break  forth 
into  a  low  chant,  upon  their  knees  :  'Lord have  mercy 
npon  us,  and  incline  our  hearts  to  keep  this  law'  Is 
not  that  the  soul  of  worship  ?  " 

Annie  bowed  her  head.  She  could  not  speak  for 
tears. 

John  Wallace  read  on  and  on.  Presently  a  still 
stronger  emotion  seemed  to  sweep  over  the  usually 
calm  and  unmoved  spirit  ;  he  sank  back  against  the 
tree-trunk,  as  though  some  strain  had  been  upon  him, 
and  a  physical  reaction  had  set  in. 

He  was  so  pale  that  Annie  sprang  up  in  alarm  and 
asked  if  he  were  ill.  But  he  answered  "  no,"  and  rose 
from  the  place  where  he  had  sat. 

"  I  will  tell  you  more  some  other  time,  child."  And 
he  passed  through  the  orchard  and  out  of  her  sight. 
She  never  forgot  that  picture.  It  seemed  to  the  girl's 
excited  fancy  like  the  vanishing  of  a  high,  calm  angel 
into  the  obscurity  of  another  sphere. 

"I  know!''  she  cried  breathlessly,  clasping  her 
hands  over  her  heart  to  press  it  into  silence  ;  "  I  know  ! 
He  was  a  clergyman  of  the  church  he  loves  so  well ! 
The  glimpse  I  had  of  him  was  a  revelation.  Some 
dark  calamity  has  befallen  him — oh,  great  and  good 

•j~»-\  Q  T"\     '    '  '  ^  ^  *  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

The  next  morning,  Annie  sat  at  work  in  the  pleas 
ant  little  sewing-room.  The  orchard  door  swims: 


!64  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

ajar,  and  a  nutty,  leafy  perfume  mingled  with  that  of 
ripening  fruit  stole  persuasively  in.  The  parlor  gar 
den  was  fragrant  with  the  spices  of  cedar  tree  and 
box  ;  while  the  tall  lilies  bowed,  stately,  in  the  breeze, 
above  beds  of  petunias  and  stock-gillies,  and  all  man 
ner  of  sweet  old-fashioned  flowers. 

In  the  kitchen-garden,  tricking  out  the  gay  rows  of 
beans  and  neat  patches  of  homely  vegetables,  there 
were  crimson  hollyhocks  ;  and  the  golden  disk  of  sun 
flowers  looked  over  the  box-hedge.  Earlier  jn  the 
season  there  had  been  a  company  of  lilac  bushes  in 
one  corner,  and  in  another  the  rosy  luxuriance  of  the 
wygelia ;  while  from  the  low-eaved  porch  had  hung 
masses  of  the  grape-like  wisteria.  Now,  the  late- 
blooming  honeysuckle,  and  the  summer-long  sweet 
ness  of  climbing  roses  made  the  quaint  garden  a 
bower,  and  entered  very  largely  into  the  calculations 
of  birds  and  bees  and  all  sorts  of  harmless,  honey- 
loving  things. 

When  Mr.  Wallace  joined  the  family,  as  he  still 
did  towards  the  hour  when  Annie  had  been  used  to 
bring  him  her  book,  there  was  a  certain  constraint 
upon  her  manner  ;  for  she  felt  guiltily  that  she  had 
perceived  more  than  had  been  meant  for  her  eye  and 
ear. 

The  studies  that  had  drawn  her  so  near  to  her  be 
loved  friend,  had  given  place  to  work  with  him 
among  the  poor — in  itself  a  new  bond  between  them. 
For,  whatever  creed  was  the  letter  of  this  man's  reli 
gion,  the  spirit  of  it  was  to  do  good. 

A  universal  compassion  for  his  kind  is  the  rarest  of 
all  qualities  in  the  heart  of  man.  He  may  feel  sorry 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  ^ 

for  a  sick  horse,  a  hungry  dog,  any  wounded  creature ; 
but  for  him  to  give  fully  of  unasked  sympathy  to  the 
mass  of  his  fellow-beings,  is  uncommon  enough  to  be 
regarded  as  phenomenal. 

To  feel  a  passing  pang  of  compassion  for  one  in 
acute,  visible  affliction,  is  one  thing:  to  be  permeated 
with  an  unfailing  readiness  of  commiseration  for  those 
mortal  ills  which  are  invisible,  is  another  and  far  less 
frequent  thing.  The  latter  mission  was  Mr  Wallace's. 
He  went  about  to  save  the  bodies  of  men  as  his  mas 
ter  had  gone  about  to  save  their  souls.  And  he  was 
not  rejected  ;  for  he  came  to  the  poor,  and  the  poor 
knew  him. 

As  they  sat  together  and  talked,  on  this  pleasant 
August  day,  the  girl  gathered  his  words  into  her  heart 
for  an  endless  recollection  of  him — one  of  those  sweet 
and  solemn  reminiscences  which,  years  after,  she 
would  linger  over  tenderly.  She  was  glad  that  he  had 
made  plain  to  her  the  power  and  beauty  of  his  knowl 
edge  of  Christ.  Reverently  she  always  folded  down 
this  purest  page  in  the  history  of  him  who  wished  to 
leave  but  the  simple  record — that  he  lived  and  died. 

"  I  am  going  to  build  a  chapel  in  Rest-Hampton, 
Annie,"  he  said  presently. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  replied  earnestly  ;  "  for  of 
course  you  will  be  the  clergyman  " — Annie  stopped 
suddenly. 

"  In  the  Church  of  England,"  said  John  Wallace, 
looking  steadily  at  her,  "a  man  cannot  even  read  the 
service  without  orders.  I  shall  probably  go  down  to 
the  Bishop  of  the  Island  and  seek  the  appointment  of 
lay  reader,  that  I  may  conduct  the  service.  I  shall 


!66  ffE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

never  preach.     I  fancy  the  Rev.  B — H — will  recom 
mend  me,"  he  added  musingly. 

That  was  all.  More,  Annie  never  knew.  It  seemed 
so  natural  presently,  that  she  tried  to  put  from  her 
mind  the  strange  and  sudden  apparition  of  the  white- 
robed  figure  swaying  the  kneeling  masses  of  people. 
It  had  been  one  of  her  halucinations,  she  concluded. 

But  the  talk  of  this  summer  afternoon  was  more  an 
expression  of  Mr.  Wallace's  faith  than  his  creed.  So 
strong  and  beautiful  was  the  light  which  shone  from 
this  faith  that  it  might  have  dazzled  a  more  worldly 
listener  than  Annie  Castlewood. 

"  Oh  Mr.  Wallace  !  "  she  cried  in  her  eager  way  ; 
"  how  you  do  believe !  " 

"  I  do  indeed,  child.  I  must.  My  faith  is  all  that 
is  left  me  out  of  a  shipwreck." 

"  Do  you  believe  everything  in  the  Bible  ? — Just  as 
it  is  written  ?  " 

"  Every  jot  and  tittle,  Annie.  If  this  is  changed, 
and  that  is  excepted  to,  and  the  other  is  omitted,  and 
half  of  it  is  said  to  be  merely  typical,  what  is  there  for 
the  believer  to  stand  upon  ?  Uncertainties,  vague 
half-beliefs,  lead  to  denials.  There  are  men  who 
preach  from  what  they  call  Christian  pulpits,  that  '  the 
Atonement  is  a  monstrous  and  bloody  fable  ;  '  that 
Christ's  life  alone  has  significance  in  the  work  of  Re 
demption : — that  Judaism  was  fatal  to  God's  plan  of 
salvation.  With  mad  distortions  of  the  truth  like  that, 
what  is  left  to  be  the  foundation  of  faith  ?  The  cleft 
Rock  is  taken  away  ;  the  pierced  Side  is  forgot 
ten. 

"  Thee   reminds   me,  John   Wallace,"  said  Martha 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  ^7 

Castlewood,  who  had  entered  the  room  a  moment  be 
fore  and  paused  to  gather  the  thread  of  the  discourse, 
"  of  the  old  woman  who  was  so  wedded  to  the  letter 
of  the  Bible,  that  when  she  was  asked  if  she  believed 
the  whale  had  swallowed  Jonah,  replied  promptly  that 
she  would  believe  Jonah  had  swallowed  the  whale  if 
the  Bible  said  so." 

For  Martha  liked  new  doctrines  much  better  than 
old  ones,  and  was  disposed  to  take  pride  in  her  reason 
rather  than  in  her  faith. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  used  sarcasm 
towards  her  guest,  and  doubtless  she  repented  it,  for 
she  presently  left  the  room,  having  received  only  a 
quiet  smile  for  her  pains. 

From  here  and  from  there  I  have  gathered  words 
and  opinions  which  fell  from  the  guarded  lips  of  this 
man,  of  whom  it  is  said  by  those  who  knew  him  : 
"  He  was  tolerant  to  all.  He  knew  i)i  Whom  he  be 
lieved,  and  yet  he  had  a  reverence  for  all  men  s  faith. 
He  had  pity,  and  not  anger,  even  for  those  doctrines  of 
negation  or  denial  which  say  "  /  reject "  in  place  of 
every  "  / believe  "  in  orthodox  creeds"  Even  the  un 
relenting  antagonism  of  the  Puritans  could  find  no 
fault  in  his  religion,  although  the  little  chapel  was  to 
them  a  bitter  stumbling  block. 

When  it  was  finished,  and  stood  fronting  the  wide, 
grassy,  Rest-Hampton  street,  John  Wallace's  heart 
went  up  in  grateful  thanksgiving.  He  had  something 
near  him,  at  last,  which  was  an  expression  of  his  own 
innermost  thought. 

"  I  do  not  wish  any  man,  woman,  or  child  to  leave 
his  own  church  and  worship  with  me/'  he  said  when 


T68  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

ever  the  subject  of  the  new  congregation  was  referred 
to. 

"  I  have  found  a  handful  of  people,  here  and  there, 
some  of  them  many  miles  away,  who  crave  what  is 
called  here  the  Protestant  Episcopal  form  of  worship. 
The  church  is  for  them — and  for  me.  I  sincerely 
hope  that  the  sound  of  its  bell  will  disturb  no  other 
community  of  Christians  who  have  a  house  of  God  and 
a  clergyman  of  their  own." 

But  Martha  Castlewood  was  the  first  to  enter  its 
doors,  leading  in  as  usual,  her  "  men  folks,"  by  her  in 
fluence. 

There  were  a  few  among  the  sturdy  villagers  who 
never  forgave  Mr.  Wallace  the  existence  of  that  chapel. 
That  the  rich  squire  and  his  family  should  uphold 
the  hands  of  a  new  priest  was  a  forever  unappeased 
grievance.  Perhaps  the  man  who  carried  this  affront 
farthest  was  deacon  Potts,  whose  stern  Pilgrim  spirit, 
together  with  a  very  decided  hankering  after  the 
squire's  daughter,  led  him  a  crusade  against  the  gentle 
scholar. 

"  It  is  a  question  of  my  religion  against  John 
Wallace's  religion,"  he  was  given  to  saying  pugna 
ciously. 

In  his  mistaken  zeal,  he  vented  some  of  his  antag 
onism  upon  the  Castlewoods,  about  whom  had  crept 
that  unconscious  reserve  which  surrounds  one  whose 
identity  is  something  unsolved.  The  deacon  resented 
hotly  this  withdrawal  of  the  best  family  and  the  nicest 
girl  in  the  village.  Moreover,  a  thing  had  come  to 
pass  which  demanded  righteous  intervention  : — a 
"  Romanish  Cathedral  "  had  been  built  under  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  xGg 

very  eaves  of  the  church  which  had  held  absolute 
sway  over  Rest-Hampton  ever  since  the  settlement 
was  ! 

Obadiah  Potts  was  the  sheep-dog  of  the  fold.  He 
was  one  of  those  fierce  disciples  who  forgot  that  their 
dogma  is  not  their  gospel.  While  Mr.  Wallace  loved 
his  own  form  of  worship,  being  strong  in  preference 
but  without  prejudice,  Obadiah  hated  all  forms  of 
worship  excepting  his  own.  He  made  himself  ex 
ceedingly  disagreeable  to  his  adversary  when  they  met, 
and  even  took  it  upon  himself  to  waylay  him  in  his 
walks,  offering  ill-timed  remarks  in  the  heat  of  his 
wrath. — 

"  What  I  want  to  know  is,  why  one  church  isn't 
enough  in  our  place,  and  why,"  he  added  gruffly,  "  a 
stranger  should  come  along  and  fool  our  people  with 
a  strange  church,  Mr.  Wallace." 

"  It  is  my  seed-sowing,"  replied  Mr.  Wallace  mildly, 
fixing  the  soft  radiance  of  his  eyes  upon  the  deacon's 
hard  and  florid  face  :  (i  Is  not  your  community  wide 
enough  for  me  to  do  my  little  alms  in  my  own  way, 
Mr.  Potts  ?  " 

"  Not  if  your  way  is  to  trample  down  our  way,  sir. 
This  is  our  town,  and  not  yours  ;  and  you  hadn't  ought 
to  meddle  with  the  religion  of  our  folks." 

In  his  indignation,  Obadiah  fell  into  the  vernacular. 
John  Wallace  still  looked  at  the  man.  It  was  a  wholly 
polite  gaze  ;  for  his  good  taste  was  too  fastidious  to 
permit  a  stare.  But  Mr.  Potts  chafed  and  fumed  under 
it,  as  though  it  had  been  a  sneer. 

"  My  dear  Sir," —  Mr.  Wallace  addressed  all  men 
as  though  they  were  his  equals — "  how  can  I  convince 


1 70  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

you  that  I  wish  to  meddle  with  no  man's  religion. 
Yonder  little  church  is  only  my  way  of  saying  '  I  be 
lieve  ! '  Perhaps  you  will  not  understand  me  when  I  say 
that  if  this  community  had  been  actually  suffering  for 
a  Presbyterian  church  or  a  Methodist  church,  I  should 
have  built  that." 

"  No,  I  dont  understand  ;  "  cried  Mr.  Potts,  "  and 
what's  more,  I  think  that  sort  of  talk  is  all  cant.  I'm 
not  a  talking  man,  myself,  but  I  can  see  through  pre 
tended  piety  when  I  have  to."  (Potts  had  red  hair  and 
a  somewhat  fiery  disposition.) 

Mr.  Wallace's  pale  face  took  a  faint  tinge  of  color. 
There  was  an  aristocratic  hauteur  in  it  which  some 
times  threatened  to  overcome  the  habitual  expression 
of  spirituality  that  it  had  come — through  what  tribula 
tions? — towear.  "  I  cannot  see,  Mr.  Potts,  what  you 
expect  to  accomplish  by  personal  abuse.  It  seems  to 
me  an  ignoble  weapon,  and  an  utterly  useless  one. 
If  I  can  say  or  do  anything  to  prove  to  you  that  I 
have  no  malice  in  my  heart  against  your  congregation 
and  it's  prosperity,  I  will  gladly  do  so." 

(He  did  not  add  that  there  were  few  who  gave  more 
to  that  very  congregation  than  himself.) 

"  Then  I  want  you  shouldn't  get  Squire  Castlewood 
and  his  whole  family  up  to  your  new  church." 

"  I  have  spoken  to  them  and  endeavored  to  dis 
suade  them,"  Mr.  Wallace  replied  simply  ;  "  but  I 
rather  think  it  has  become  a  matter  of  real  preference 
with  Mrs.  Castlewood  and  her  daughter." 

"  Oh — no  doubt  ; "  cried  the  other,  his  ire  rising 
higher  ;  "  The  old  lady  is  half  cracked  after  new  things 
anvwav,  I  am  told.  As  for  the  girl,  of  course  you 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  I7I 

can  play  at  love-making  with  her,  and  carry  her  with 
you  into  perdition  if  you  like." 

Again  Mr.  Wallace  looked  at  the  enemy  who  so  de 
terminedly  antagonized  himself  in  so  vulgar  a  way, 
This  time  Obadiah  Potts  was  thoroughly  taken  aback 
at  the  keenness  of  the  gaze.  For  even  though  a  man 
may  be  a  saint — nay,  it  sometimes  happens  so  ! — there 
are  still  demoniac  forces  native  within  him  which  may 
rise  up  and  threaten  to  undo  the  gentler  virtues  of  a  life 
time. 

The  scathing  moment  passed  however.  This  man's 
self-control  was  almost  omnipotent.  Mr.  Potts  has 
tened  to  conciliate,  in  his  clumsy  way  :  "You  see  I 
know  Nancy  Castlewood.  She's  a  good  girl,  but  easily 
led,  where  her  fancy  is  tickled.  I  don't  blame  you 
for  that.  Nearly  all  young  women  are  silly.  But  still 
I  can't  make  out  the  good  of  two  churches  to  split  up 
a  neighborhood." 

"  I  think  that  there  is  good — else  I  should  not  have 
built  the  chapel, — in  two  churches.  There  are  then 
many  ways  of  calling  human  creatures  to  Christ.  If 
one  way  fails,  with  special  souls,  the  other  may  suc 
ceed.  Are  they  not  all  one,  Mr.  Potts — your  creed  and 
mine  ?  Do  we  not  both  preach  Christ  and  the  atone 
ment  ?  It  is  our  duty  to  uphold  each  other,  that  we 
may  uplift  men. " 

This  was  a  hard  doctrine  to  Mr.  Potts,  who  had 
never  thought  about  more  than  one  straight  and  nar 
row  sectarianism.  He  did  not  like  it ;  but  he  could 
not  help  seeing  its  charity. 

"  In  these  times  of  strange  creeds,  "  began  John 
Wallace,  as  if  to  himself,  "  of  wild  theories,  of  many 


1 7  2      THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  WALLA CE. 

gospels — the  gospel  of  science,  the  gospel  of  philos 
ophy,  the  gospel  of  unbelief,  and  the  thousand  other 
gospels  of  men's  making  that  have  no  revelation  for 
the  saving  of  men's  souls, — in  these  times  of  follow 
ing  things  new,  and  despising  things  old,  let  us  be 
careful  upon  what  we  build.  " 

"  Yes — that  is  just  it,  "  cried  the  deacon,  only  half 
grasping  the  other's  meaning  :  "  that  is  why  I  don't 
want  to  see  our  people  led  away  and  unsettled." 

"  No — no  ;  "  answered  the  other  earnestly  :  "  It  is 
against  a  too  close  conformation,  a  too  strict  dogma, 
I  would  warn  you.  Tell  your  people  not  to  build  upon 
their  doctrines,  but  upon  Christ.  That  is  the  spirit 
of  religion  without  which  the  letter  is  an  empty 
sham." 

"  And  I  would  tell  you,  "  cried  Mr.  Potts  inspira- 
tionally,  4'  to  beware  of  priestly  teachings,  and  mum 
meries  that  take  possession  of  the  imagination  and 
leave  the  heart  unsatisfied." 

"  You  are  right,  Mr.  Potts.  The  soul  does  not 
need  a  creed  or  a  ritual.  The  story  of  Christ  and 
His  atonement  is  so  simple  and  plain  in  the  Bible  that 
it  needs  no  comments  of  man,  no  human  theories 
hung  upon  its  divine  sufficiency.  It  is  the  world  not 
the  Bible  that  makes  religion  many-sided.  Every 
one  has  an  '  own  way '  of  looking  at  things.  He  calls 
that  the  right  way.  And  so  it  is — for  him.  His  soul 
does  not  heed  it,  but  his  body  does.  His  senses,  his 
imagination,  his  daily  life,  demand  a  creed.  I  have 
lifted  up  my  creed  in  this  little  town,  not  because  it 
is  better  than  your  creed,  but  because  it  is  told  in 
different  words.  Do  not  let  us,  in  serving  God,  an- 


THE  SHADO IV  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE.  1 73 

tagonize  each  other,  but  qualify  and  mitigate  each 
other.  " 

Mr.  Potts  was  puzzled,  and  not  at  all  certain  that 
he  liked  this  compromising  doctrine  any  more  than 
he  had  liked  the  other.  There  seemed,  however, 
nothing  more  to  say  in  direct  and  personal  opposition, 
to  Mr.  Wallace  himself.  The  only  thing  that  re 
mained  was  to  see  the  Castlewood's  themselves,  and 
lay  before  them  their  unmistakable  duty  in  upholding 
the  church  which  all  Mr.  Wallace's  eloquence  could 
not  prevent  him  from  believing  to  be  the  only  safe 
fold.  Moreover,  these  lost  sheep  of  the  true  faith 
were  well-to-do  wanderers,  who  could  not  be  spared. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A    STORM    AND    ITS    REVELATIONS. 

"  What  lacks  then  of  perfection  fit  for  God 
J3utjust  the  instance  which  this  tale  supplies 
Of  love  without  a  limit?      So  is  strength, 
So  is  intelligence :     Then  love  is  so, 
Unlimited  in  its  self-sacrifice  : 
Then  is  the  tale  true  and  God  shows  complete.  " 
THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

TOM  was  gradually — very  gradually — rising  in  the 
world.  Some  of  the  busy  merchants  among  whom 
he  was  thrown,  recognizing  his  honesty,  made  capital 
of  it.  His  "  setting  up  for  himself  "  had  languished  ; 
and  when  the  outside  manager  of  a  large  shipping 
firm  offered  him  a  salary  of  eight  or  nine  hundred 
dollars,  he  was  thankful.  It  seemed  to  him  magnifi 
cent.  To  Annie,  also,  ignorant  as  most  women 
blessedly  are  of  the  actual  cost  of  living,  it  appeared 
munificent.  Her  lover  had  been  two  years  in  the  un 
known  city;  and  now  that  he  began  to  talk  of  coming 
back  to  fetch  her,  she  found  herself  looking  forward 
to  a  new  life  of  untried  promises,  with  something 
like  expectation. 

Tom  had  turned  out  to  be  the  "  fine  fellow  "  her 
father  had  predicted,  and  was  indeed  more  of  a  sue- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  I75 

cess  than  even  that  sanguine  gentleman  had  actually 
expected.  Still,  the  question  of  a  speedy  marriage 
pended  in  uncertainty — to  the  outspoken  amazement 
of  the  village  maidens  who  avowed  they  would  never 
keep  so  prosperous  and  handsome  a  fellow  dangling 
in  uncertainty  upon  their  whims.  But  when  Tom 
arrived,  Annie  was  completely  won  over  by  his  manly 
looks  and  his  ardent  devotion.  She  forgot  all  those 
puzzling  analytics  in  which  she  had  been  for  so  long 
steeped.  She  forgot  her  comparisons  between  Tom's 
unsentimental  attitudes  towards  her  pet  subjects,  and 
Mr.  Wallace's  fastidious  appreciation  of  the  spiritual 
side  to  every  question.  She  even  began  to  admire 
the  younger  man's  wholesome  love  of  life  and  of  the 
world  ;  and  to  prefer  it,  critically,  she  thought,  to  Mr. 
Wallace's  unworldly  and  somewhat  impractical  renun 
ciations.  After  all,  it  would  be  pleasant  to  live  with 
Tom,  and  participate  in  his  fresh  experiences  and  his 
youthful  impressions.  Annie  was  on  the  rebound 
from  a  somewhat  over-done  exclusiveness  of  prefer 
ence.  She  had  had,  for  the  time  being,  enough  of  the 
psychological  side  of  life ;  and  the  natural  aspect  of 
things,  as  apparent  to  young  Hatherton,  was  a  relief. 
Then  she  fancied  herself  in  love  with  her  robust  lover, 
and  was  content  to  be  married. 

Tom  certainly  was  handsome,  and  had,  moreover, 
a  fascination  of  his  own,  that  was  the  result  of  good 
spirits  and  good  digestion,  rather  than  of  any  actual 
charm  or  palpable  virtue.  He  was  one  of  those  lucky 
individuals  whom  everybody  likes,  men  as  well  as 
women  ;  and  yet  I  doubt  if  any  reason  could  have 
been  given  except  to  praise  his  frankness,  his  young 


176  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

good-looks,  and  his  easy  good-tempered  way  of  meet 
ing  people  and  circumstances. 

And  so,  one  day,  the  engagement  was  formally  an 
nounced.  The  village  congratulated  Annie  ;  but  her 
mother  was  silent. 

A  few  nights  after,  there  came  to  Rest-Hampton, 
one  of  those  frightful  storms  of  which  the  whole  annals 
of  the  coast  town  had  scored  but  a  half-dozen.  When 
ever  one  had  come,  it  had  left  its  mark  in  the  little 
burying  grounds,  where  they  laid  the  bodies  of 
wretched  creatures  who  had  perished  near  the  shore. 

The  earth  and  sky  were  enveloped  in  a  dense  pall  of 
blackness,  shredded  each  instant  by  terrifying  shafts 
of  fatal  lightning.  The  sea  thundered  back  to  the 
thunder  of  the  heavens  ;  and  the  bellowing  winds 
swept  the  sounds  together  in  one  hideous  roar. 

"  God  help  the  seamen  to-night,"  sighed  Mr.  Wal 
lace,  as  they  sat  together  over  the  great  glowing  logs, 
too  appalled  for  conversation,  and  yet  shrinking  in 
stinctively  from  scattering  for  the  night.  There  was 
some  comfort  in  companionship  ;  for  the  blasts  of  wind 
that  wailed  incessantly  about  the  old  house  rose  ever 
and  anon  into  a  wild  hurricane,  and  shook  every  case 
ment  as  with  frenzied  hands  of  fear. 

Annie  Castlewood's  face  was  white  with  a  strange 
dread,  and  she  cowered  over  the  fire  listening  to  each 
mad  rush  of  the  tempest,  that  seemed  more  furious 
than  the  last.  She  was  sick  at  heart  and  in  body. 

Tom,  who  had  been  spending  the  evening,  and  was 
house-bound  by  the  storm,  made  a  few  unsuccessful 
attempts  at  banter ;  but,  failing  to  rally  any  of  the 
party,  relapsed  finally  into  silence.  Even  the  boys 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  ^7 

were  quiet,  as  they  hung  about  the  windows  as  if  alert 
for  some  unknown  development. 

All  at  once,  a  sound  reached  the  pleasant  room 
through  a  lull  in  the  tempest,  which  made  them 
start  to  their  feet  and  look,  terrified,  into  each  other's 
faces. 

Squire  Castlewood,  who  had  heard  that  signal  of 
despair  before,  rushed  for  his  great-coat  and  cap,  fol 
lowed  by  the  boys  who  upon  certain  occasions  broke 
from  their  mother's  authority. 

"  Joshua,"  cried  Martha  Castlewood — "  thee  is  not 
going  out — thee  will  not  take  the  boys  out — on  such 
a  night  as  this  !  " 

"  I  must  go,  Martha  !  be  quiet — let  the  boys  go — 
there  is  no  danger — on  land." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  hurried  way ;  and  then  turned 
and  kissed  his  wife  and  Annie,  who  stood  white  and 
still  as  a  ghost.  John  Wallace  rose,  his  clear  eyes 
penetrating  through  the  purpose  of  the  good  Squire. 
At  first,  he  had  not  realized  the  meaning  of  the  now 
repeated  sound. 

"  Can  it  be  a  ship,  Mr.  Castlewood  ?  "  he  asked 
quickly. 

"  Yes — Good  God  !  a  ship  to  go  down  in  such  a 
sea !  " 

"  I  will  go  with  you  to  the  shore." 

He  spoke  quietly,  but  Annie's  strained  ears  detected 
something  in  his  voice  which  boded  a  sudden  deter 
mination.  With  that  strange  intuition  which  is  akin 
to  fore-knowledge,  and  which  is  given  alone  to  women, 
she  knew  that  if  there  was  danger  to  be  risked,  John 
Wallace  meant  to  brave  it.  She  looked  at  him  wildly, 


I78  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

and  as  he  turned  to   leave   the   room,  from  her  over 
strained  nerves  burst  a  stifled  cry  ; 

"  Oh — Mr.  Wallace,  pray  don't  !  Oh  Tom  !  go  with 
Mr.  Wallace  !  Don't  let  him  get  in  the  boat" — and 
then  she  fell  to  sobbing  with  uncontrollable  violence. 

The  three  men  looked  at  her,  and  exchanged  mute 
glances.  Then  the  Squire  spoke  out, — 

"  Yes,  Tom,  come  along.  Mr.  Wallace  is  not  used 
to  wild  scenes  like  that  yonder  :  and — and — it's  a 
rough  night  for  a  town-bred  man,  Mr.  Wallace,  a 
rough  night,  sir." 

Andrews  was  muffling  his  master  in  his  heaviest 
wrappings.  Presently  the  latter  said  gently, — 

"  I  think,  Annie,  that  Mr.  Hatherton  had  better  stay 
with  your  mother  and  yourself.  Andrews  will  take 
care  of  us." 

But  Annie's  panic  burst  out  again. 

"  Don't  go — pray  don't  go,"  she  cried  hysterically, 
breaking  from  her  chair,  and  seizing  Mr.  Wallace's 
arm — "  Take  me — if  you  go — " 

"Annie,  I  think  that  thee  has  forgotten  thyself." 
Her  mother  led  her  firmly  back  to  her  chair.  In 
spite  of  her  enforced  calm,  she,  too,  was  painfully  ex 
cited. 

Tom  who  had  not  spoken  or  moved,  excepting  to 
start  up  at  Annie's  first  appeal,  stood  and  looked,  his 
brow  darkening  every  instant.  Suddenly  Annie 
rushed  from  the  room  and  upstairs.  In  her  own 
chamber,  she  dropped  panting  upon  the  floor. 

"  What  have  I  done  !  what  have  I  done  ?  "  she  cried 
over  and  over,  staring  with  wide,  wild  eyes  into 
vacancy.  "  What  have  I  clone  ?  what  does  it  all  mean  ? 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  jyg 

I  was  out  of  my  senses !  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  what 
will  become  of  me  ?  " 

Over  and  over  the  same  vacant  sentences  repeated 
themselves  in  a  wild  monody  of  desolation. 

Presently  she  heard  the  men  depart.  Were  there 
three — or  four  ?  Had  Tom  gone  ?  Perhaps  he 
would  never  come  back.  She  cared  nothing.  It  was 
that  other.  Would  any  harm  come  to  him  ?  He 
would  go  to  the  life-saving  station.  The  men  would 
let  him  in  the  boat.  Every  one  let  Mr.  Wallace  do 
what  he  wished.  They  would  push  the  boat  into  the 
breakers.  The  waves  would  go  over  it.  It  would 
be  swamped — again  the  frenzy  seized  Annie.  She 
fled  downstairs  and  out  of  the  house  like  a  distracted 
thing.  The  blackness  was  so  intense,  and  the  tumult 
of  the  elements  so  overpowering,  that  she  was  blown 
along  she  knew  not  whither.  The  rain  drove  in  blind 
ing  sheets  through  the  darkness.  The  lightning 
rent  the  sky,  revealing  in  instantaneous  gleams,  the 
wind-swept  and  drenched  and  desolate  road.  She 
stumbled  upon  fences  and  houses  ;  she  fell  against  trees. 
She  saw,  in  the  sharp  and  terrifying  blazes  of  the  light 
ning,  that  there  were  here  and  there  hurrying  groups 
of  people  stumbling  like  herself  in  the  darkness.  No 
one  else  was  alone.  She  tried  to  run.  Suddenly,  in 
a  wider  blaze  of  lightning,  she  saw  the  figure  of  John 
Wallace,  struggling  through  the  storm,  with  bent 
head  and  firm  steps.  She  did  not  know  she  spoke ; 
but  she  shrieked  again  and  again  : 

"  Don't  go — Mr.  Wallace  !  " 

The  figure  paused,  turned  :  the  group  who  struggled 
beside  him  stumbled  on.  In  another  slare  of  green 


l8o  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

light,  Annie  saw  that  he  was  coming  towards  her. 
The  next  instant  she  fell  panting  in  his  arms. 

"  Come  back,"  she  whispered  through  her  chatter 
ing  teeth — "Don't  get  into  the  boat." 

"  Annie,"  he  said,  speaking  very  distinctly  and 
calmly,  "  you  are  beside  yourself  with  nervousness  and 
fright.  Come  home  at  once." 

She  shook  her  head,  the  power  of  speech  having 
deserted  her.  She  was  shaking  as  with  an  ague,  and 
Mr.  Wallace  placed  his  arm  about  her  almost  carrying 
her  back  through  the  storm. 

It  would  not  have  been  possible  for  any  touch  to  be 
more  impersonal  than  that  with  which  he  supported 
her  backward  flight.  She  felt  the  coldness  of  his  dis 
approval  even  through  the  reelings  of  her  own  over 
wrought  condition,  but  he  had  too  much  discrimination 
to  upbraid  her  in  her  unreasonable  state.  He  bore 
her  silently  and  swiftly  over  the  road  where  she  had 
stumbled  along  in  her  blind  frenzy.  Perhaps  his 
heart  throbbed  compassionately  in  response  to  this 
lamentable  outbreak  from  the  terrified  girl,  which  had 
said  so  palpably — "  I  love  you.  I  have  never  known 
it,  but  I  love  you.  Pity  me  !  " 

John  Wallace's  self-control  was  not  />f  the  sort  to  fail 
in  any  emergency.  He  did  not  press  with  even  a 
hint  of  tenderness  to  his  side,  the  young  creature  who 
clung  so  piteously  to  him,  but  held  her  sternly  aloof 
from  his  heart.  She  was  none  of  his.  If  he  yearned  to 
have  her  so,  who  shall  tell  ?  When  they  reached  the 
house,  Tom  Hatherton  was  standing  at  the  door, 
gloomy  and  silent.  In  the  last  half-hour,  he  had 
taken  a  new  estimate  of  Annie's  probable  conduct 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  181 

during  the  two  years  of  his  absence.  There  was 
nothing  in  Mr.  Wallace's  bringing  her  back  to  him 
without  a  word,  to  cause  him  to  alter  his  opinion. 
He  had  thought  the  girl  upstairs :  that  she  had 
actually  followed  the  other  was  worse  proof  of  her 
perfidy  than  all. 

He  silently  moved  aside,  without  looking  at  Annie, 
to  let  her  pass.  She  crept  into  the  house,  tearless 
and  miserable,  but  temporarily  restored  to  her  sanity 
by  the  calm  control  of  a  master  spirit. 

"  Hatherton,"  said  Mr.  Wallace,  looking  him  calmly 
and  clearly  in  the  eyes,  with  his  steady  gaze : 
"  You  will  have  to  be  very  careful  with  that  child, 
I  fear  that  she  is  on  the  verge  of  a  brain-fever." 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Tom  curtly !  "  you  had 
better  look  after  her  yourself.  She  is  nothing  to  me," 
and  he  strode  away  into  the  storm. 

Mr.  Wallace  stood  irresolute  for  a  second.  His  pity 
yearned  over  the  poor  young  creature  who  had  given 
way  so  madly  to  an  unsuspected  emotion, 

"  I  should  only  make  matters  worse  if  I  tried  to  mend 
them,"  he  thought,  "  God  forbid  that  she  should  come 
to  harm  or  sorrow,  through  me." 

Then  he  too  turned  and  hurried  out  into  the  fu 
rious  night,  carrying  a  leaden  heart  in  his  blameless 
bosom. 

Annie  stole  upstairs  feeling  more  like  a  culprit  than 
she  had  ever  done  in  her  life,  Tom's  gloomy  and  un 
relenting  face,  which  had  turned  from  her  when  she 
glanced  at  him,  smote  her  with  intermittent  regrets. 
But  the  kesn,  the  poignant,  the  incessant  remorse, 
was  from  a  sense  that  she  had  dragged  from  his  mas- 


182  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

terful  height,  the  man  who  had  never  stooped  to  say 
to  her  silly  heart,  "do  you  love  me,  Annie?" 

The  mother,  busy  about  preparing  blankets  and 
restoratives  for  possible  demand,  had  not  missed  her. 
Moreover,  Martha  Castlewood  wished  to  think  out,  be 
fore  she  met  her  daughter's  eyes,  the  possible  tending 
of  that  painful  scene.  The  older  woman  was,  by  nature, 
something  of  a  schemer,  and  even  now.  busied  about 
the  melancholy  details  of  such  a  preparation,  she  could 
not  repress  a  certain  exhilaration  of  hope.  Surely, 
John  Wallace  would  "  speak,"  after  that. 

Annie  was  spared  the  misery  of  listening  to  this 
sentiment.  She  crawled  into  bed  without  undressing, 
and  covered  her  head  with  the  bed-clothes,  that  she 
might  not  hear  the  raging  of  the  elements  and  the 
booming  of  the  fatal  sisrnal  of  distress.  The  cold  had 

o  o 

struck  to  her  very  marrow.  The  night  wore  on  woe 
fully.  She  did  not  hear  her  mother's  authoritative 
knock,  or  if  she  heard,  it  echoed  past  her  concious- 
ness  in  the  rush  and  roar  of 'that  awful  night. 

The  panorama  along  the  beach  swam  continually  be 
fore  her  dizzy  brain  :  but  most  of  all  there  stood  out 
the  face  of  John  Wallace,  too  gentle  to  be  angry  with 
her,  too  just  not  to  be  indignant  at  her  folly.  She 
fancied  him  stepping  bravely  into  the  life  boat,  and 
the  frail  craft  plunging  under  the  huge  breakers.  She 
saw  his  steady  gaze  fixed  upon  some  distant  object  ! 
She  watched  a  yawning  wave  rise  up  and  envelope 
the  boat  and  its  crew.  She  saw  the  water  dash  over 
an  uplifted  head  and  wash  across  a  serene  white  face. 
Then  the  face  seemed  to  disappear.  The  night  and 
the  tempest  had  swallowed  it. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  ^3 

Annie  screamed  as  only  a  wild  thing  screams.  John 
Wallace  was  right.  It  was  brain-fever,  the  sudden  de 
velopment  of  which  had  caused  the  poor  girl's  un 
accountable  excitement,  no  doubt  rather  than  been 
produced  by  it. 

But  how  was  Tom  Hatherton  to  know  that  ?  For 
the  next  morning,  proud  and  disconsolate,  wounded 
to  the  quick,  but  unrelenting,  Annie's  lover  with  a 
farewell  to  no  one  took  the  early  stage  to  Sag  Harbor, 
whence  the  little  steamer  carried  him  back  to  New 
York,  alone,  and  with  a  great  bitterness  in  his  honest 
heart. 

What  of  the  storm  ?  and  the  fated  ship  wrecked  upon 
that  desolate  coast  in  the  night  ?  Ask  the  little 
village  burying-ground.  It  will  tell  of  glad  young 
lives,  and  gray  weather-beaten  lives,  and  weary  time- 
worn  1/ves,  that  were  blown  out  like  sparks  in  the 
fury  of  that  blast. 

There  was  a  tempest  in  the  brain  of  the  squire's 
little  daughter  which  matched  the  terror  of  the  tempest 
without.  But  who  shall  know  what  late  misery,  what 
new  ship-wreck,  had  come  to  the  once  storm-swept 
bosom  of  John  Wallace !  Is  there  not  something  sinister 
which  gudes  the  blind  drivings  of  afated  life,  which 
casts  it  eTer  and  anon  upon  unknown  reefs  of  misfor 
tune  ?  Surely,  only  the  unerring  and  pitiless  eye  of  an 
evil  geniu;  can  so  surely,  so  relentlessly  hurl  the  hap 
less  human  soul  upon  the  rocks  and  quicksands ! 

John  Wallace  had  sought  the  shelter  of  a  quiet 
haven  where  he  believed  that  the  furies  could  not 
pursue  him.  But  the  storm  that  drove  the  sinking 
vessel  upon  the  Island  shore,  cast  once  more  at  his 


r84  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

fated  feet    the    spectre   of  his  life.     Meanwhile    the 
melancholy  gun  boomed  fitfully. 

There  were  noble  efforts  made  by  the  sturdy  men 
of  the  life-saving  service.  There  were  brave  fisher 
men,  too  who  persisted  in  launching  a  boat  of  their 
own  into  the  boiling  surf.  There  were  half  a  hundred 
villagers,  full  of  courage,  and  ready  to  lend  any  aid 
they  might  to  the  futile  efforts.  But  all  inexperience 
was  rejected  as  worse  than  useless.  Only  John  Wal 
lace  prevailed. 

"  I  have  spent  many  a  night  at  sea,"  he  said  vith 
his  masterful  calm.  "  A  storm  like  this  is  not  un 
known  to  me.  In  God's  name  let  me  go  to  those 
perishing  creatures." 

At  first  they  refused  him.  So  their  orders  compelled 
them  to  do.  But  when  he  heard  that  it  was  a  Scotch 
bark,  he  went  to  the  Captain  of  the  life-saving  crew  : 

"  I  will  give  you  five  hundred  dollars  in  aid  cf  your 
coast  service  if  you  will  take  me  to  yonder  ship." 

The  man  looked  at  him,  incredulously. 

"  Come  sir,"  he  said  almost  roughly,  "  th.s  is  no 
time  for  trifling,  Stand  aside  and  let  me  give  my 
orders,  will  you  ? " 

John  Wallace  went  over  to  where  Squire  Cistlewood 
stood  shivering  in  the  rain  and  cold  : 

"  Mr.  Castlewood,  I  want  you  here,  if  you  please," 
"  you  will  see  that  I  mean  what  I  say,  Captaii  Murphy. 
Look — I  hand  Squire  Castlewood  these  five  hundred 
dollar  notes  for  you.  Will  you  take  me  ?  ' 

The  signals  from  the  ship  had  ceased.  Doubtless 
she  was  sinking.  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  now. 

The  Captain  touched  his  dripping  cap  • 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOffti  WALLACE.  ^5 

"  All  right,  sir :  at  your  own  risk.  Mind,  Squire 
Castlewood,  that's  not  a  bribe  for  me,  but  a  present 
to  the  life-saving  service.  You  will  look  out  for  it  if 
we  never  come  back  ?  " 

"  But  my  dear  sir,"  cried  the  dazed  Squire  to  Mr. 
Wallace,  "  You  surely  are  not  going  into  that  toy 
boat  on  this  sea !  Do  pray  consider  the  danger — 
consider — us  all !  " 

He  was  thinking  of  Annie,  for  whom  his  perplexed 
heart  bled.  John  Wallace  was  thinking  of  her  too. 

"  It  would  be  best,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  if  I  never 
went  back:  if  she  never  saw  me  again." 

Then  he  grasped  Squire  Castlewood's  cold  wet 
hand  and  said  in  his  clear  penetrating  voice. — 

"  If  I  never  come  back,  Joshua  Castlewood,  remem 
ber  that  I  shall  be  grateful  to  the  storm  and  to  God."' 

And  he  sprang  among  the  handful  of  sea-faring 
men.  It  took  much  shouting  and  many  endeavors  to 
launch  the  boot.  Andrews  clung  to  Mr.  Wallace,  to 
the  gunwale  of  the  boat,  to  anything  he  could  seize 
upon,  crying  like  a  child,  and  begging  to  be  taken  in 
with  his  master.  They  pushed  him  roughly  away,  but 
not  until  he  had  felt  the  kind  pressure  of  a  firm  and 
masterful  hand  he  knew.  He  sobbed  aloud.  The 
next  moment  the  boat  was  hurtling  into  the  black 
abyss  of  waves. 

After  that  it  disappeared,  and  a  great  cry  went  up 
from  the  watchers  on  the  beach.  It  was  at  that  in 
stant  that  Annie  Castlewood,  shuddering  in  her  bed, 
a  mile  away,  shrieked.  Her  spirit,  it  may  be,  watched 
from  the  shore.  For  who  knows  whereabouts  is  the 
spirit  of  a  sleeper,  or  of  one  bereft  of  reason  ?  Poor 


i86  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

Squire  Castlewood  spent  the  remainder  of  the  night 
on  the  wild  coast,  battling  in  the  darkness  with  min 
gled  emotions  of  alarm  and  perplexity.  Andrews, 
half  mad  with  grief  and  anxiety,  rushed  about  in  fran 
tic  misery,  hurling  copious  anathemas  at  the  storm,  at 
the  sea,  and  at  the  Squire  who  had  let  his  master  go. 
Tom  Hatherton  went  back  and  forth  the  long  wild 
tramp  from  the  coast  to  the  village,  where  a  shadow- 
as  of  death  seemed  brooding. 

Martha  watched  terrified,  by  the  bedside  of  her 
daughter,  who  was  plainly  "  wandering." 

With  dawn,  came  the  abating  of  the  storm,  and  the 
return  of  the  hardy  little  boat.  John  Wallace  had  net 
gone  down  into  the  deep.  He  had  come  back  to  his 
alien  life.  The  wreckers,  brave  fellows,  but  supersti 
tious  as  are  all  sea-men,  used  to  tell  afterwards  over 
many  a  pot  of  ale,  and  with  many  a  mysterious  shake 
of  the  head,  a  story  which  grew  greatly  in  the  telling. 

There  was  something  supernatural,  they  declared, 
the  night  that  the  Scotch  brig  went  down.  Their  boat 
was  in  the  direst  jeopardy  and  would  have  been 
swamped  every  time,  but  for  some  strange  power  that 
made  her  ride  the  waves.  There  was  some  one  in 
the  company,  they  affirmed,  who  could  not  sink. 

"  It  was  so  black  you  couldn't  see  your  hand  before 
your  eyes,"  a  hardy  fellow  swore,  "  and  yet  there  was  a 
queer  sort  o'  white  light,  like  a  halo,  which  made  one 
man's  face  as  plain  as  daylight.  That  man,  was  Mr. 
Wallace,  sir,"  and  he  always  finished  with — "  I  tell 
you,  /  see  it  myself? 

"  T'was  too  late,  though,"  grumbled  the  sailors  and 
wreckers  :  "  The  old  hulk  'd  gawn  to  pieces  afore  we 


THE  SHA  DOW  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE.      j  8  7 

reached  her.  It  took  us  nigh  onto  an  hour  to  come 
up  to  the  place.  There  wasn't  but  three  live  men  an' 
one  woman  afloat.  (We  picked  up  the  next  few  days, 
a  good  dozen  or  more  dead  men  about  the  coast.) 
T'was  poor  enough  luck.  There  weren't  no  cargo 
worth  speaking  of  that  came  ashore.  Couldn't  ha' 
been  worth  much,  that  ship." 

"  And  yet  it  must  have  been  Mr.  Wallace's  ship." 
supplemented  the  landsmen.  For  it  was  observed 
that,  after  that  day,  John  Wallace  never  again  walked 
to  the  old  harbor. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
ANNIE'S  MARRIAGE. 

"  Why  comes  temptation  but  for  man  to  meet 
And  master  and  make  crouch  beneath  hisfeet^ 
And  so  be  pedestalled  in  triumph?     Pray 

1  Lead  us  into  no  such  temptation,  Lord!1 
Yea,  but,  O  Thou  whose  servants  are  the  bold, 
Lead  such  temptations  by  the  head  and  hair, 
Reluctant  dragons,  up  to  who  dare  fight, 
That  so  he  may  do  battle  and  have  praise. 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

ANNIE'S  feeling  when  she  thought  of  Tom's  depart 
ure  and  his  probable  disappointment,  was  one  of  bit 
terness.  What  could  he  know,  she  mused,  of  such 
acute  wretchedness  as  hers  ?  Only  a  being  like  Mr. 
Wallace  could  comprehend  so  subtle  a  misery.  In 
deed,  contemplating  the  complex  nature  of  her  own 
grief  produced  a  certain  hardness  towards  her  lover's 
commonplace  grievance,  and  she  assured  herself  over 
and  over  again  that  she  should  never  regret  him  ; — 
in  truth,  that  she  could  experience  only  a  sense  of  re 
lief  at  being  rid  of  a  devotion  quite  incapable  of  appre 
ciating  her  finer  moods. 

"  I  had  rather  worship  my  hero  afar  off,  all  the 
empty  days  of  my  life,  than  marry  any  other  man  upon 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  189 

earth  !  "  she  cried  passionately  in  her  tempestuous 
heart.  "  And  I  shall  be  content  to  live  alone  in  the 
shadow  of  this  secret  love.  It  is  nobler  than  to  bask 
in  the  every-day  light  of  a  half-hearted  affection." 

Poor  Annie ! — poor  innocent  child !  little  did  she 
know  of  the  nature  of  the  terrible  temptation  she  was 
hugging  to  her  breast,  when  she  tried  to  cast  aside 
the  pure  love  of  an  outspoken,  true  soul,  and  to  gather 
to  her  wounded  heart  instead  the  nameless  and 
irresistible  fascinations  of  a  secret  and  unsought 
passion  ! 

Who  knows  what  guilt,  what  degradation,  might 
not  have  followed  in  the  train  of  such  an  abandon 
ment  of  soul  ?  At  least  she  did  not  realize ;  nor 
did  John  Wallace  suspect.  Only  her  evil  genius 
knew. 

For  a  while,  pride  had  triumphed.  Then  Tom,  in  his 
unselfishness  and  unconsciousness  prepared  for  that 
pride  a  downfall.  He  had  no  thought  of  posing  as  mag 
nanimous,  or  of  heaping  coals  of  fire.  Nevertheless,  the 
coals  fell  upon  Annie's  head  and  humbled  it  to  the  dust. 
Out  of  the  humiliation  of  that  dust  she  was  saved.  .  . 

Tom  had  gone  back  to  New  York,  in  a  pardonably 
wrathful  frame  of  mind.  He  was  such  an  honest  fel 
low,  that  the  bare  idea  of  duplicity  on  Annie's  part 
was  intolerable  to  him.  He  thought  that  he  meant 
to  throw  over  the  engagement  without  another  word. 
But  it  was  unnatural  for  any  thing  to  rankle  in  his 
generous  heart,  and  by  the  time  a  week  had  elapsed, 
he  had  shifted  his  point  of  view,  and  made  up  his 
mind  to  overlook  her  strange  behavior  as  a  part  of 
the  girl's  illness.  At  least  he  would  give  Annie  the 


I 

190  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

opportunity  to  do  so.  It  was  more  chivalrous,  any 
way,  to  let  the  girl  break  the  engagement,  if  it  had  to 
be  broken. 

That  she  had  hurt  him  to  the  quick  he  neither 
asserted  nor  denied.  He  simply  put  it  aside  as  some 
thing  which,  God  willing,  should  be  forgotten. 

And  here  Tom  Hatherton — he  that  was  simple  of 
thought  and  ordinary  of  action,  and  unpoetic  of  soul 
— rose  to  that  height  which  is  rarely  attained  among 
mortal  men  :  the  height  of  self-renunciation  from 
which  he  could  look  down  and  say  not  only  "  I  for 
give/'  but  "  I  forget." 

Such  forgiveness  is  divine,  not  human.  Our  fel 
low  man  says  grudgingly,  "  I  forgive  you  ; — but  the 
memory  of  our  offense  is  never  wholly  obliterated.  •• 
We  feel  it  in  the  touch  of  his  hand  :  we  see  it  in  the 
coldness  of  his  eye.  God  says,  "  As  far  as  the  east 
is  from  the  west,  so  far  have  I  removed  their  trans 
gressions  from  them  :  "  and,  "  I  will  no  more  remem 
ber  their  sin." 

And  so  it  happened,  that  one  day,  during  Annie's 
first  convalescence.  Squire  Castlewood  had  put  this 
little  note  into  his  daughter's  weak  hand:  and,  after 
reading  it,  she  had  flung  herself  sobbing  upon  his 
bosom. 

"Dear  Annie  ;  I  thought  may  be  I  had  better  go 
off  for  a  while,  as  I'm  afraid  perhaps  you  are  not  quite 
sure  of  yourself.  I  only  heard  yesterday,  that  you 
have  had  a  fever.  It  changes  the  look  of  some  things. 
I  am  sorry  you  have  been  ill.  Don't  worry  about 
me.  I  love  you  the  same  as  ever,  but  I  don't  want 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  lgl 

to  force  you  into  marrying  me.     We  can  wait  awhile 
longer  before  saying  anything   more  about  it,  if  you 

like. 

Yours  devotedly, 

Thos.   Hatherton. 

"  O  father  !  "  sobbed  the  girl,  with  her  arms  around 
his  neck  :  "  read  what  Tom  says.  Oh,  he  is  too  no 
ble  for  me  !  I  am  not  good  enough  for  him." 

"  Yes  you  'are,  lass  :  and  he  will  find  it  out  some 
day.  It  was  all  a  mistake.  You  were  ill,  that  night, 
you  can  explain  it " 

"  No,"  cried  Annie,  shivering,  "  I  could  never  ex 
plain  that  night.  It  is  irrevocable.  I  never  want  to 
speak  of  it." 

"  Well — well  ;  perhaps  it  is  just  as  well,  Nancy. 
But  Tom  has  done  the  handsome  thing.  I  always, 
said  he  was  a  fine  fellow.  By  and  by,  when  you  are 
better,  you  can  write  him  a  letter,  a  nice  letter  you 
know." 

"  I  must  write  now.  Dear  noble  Tom  !  Oh, 
father  !  I  do  love  Tom  !  I  must  have  been  mad  not 
to  have  known  it  always.  Prop  me  up,  with  pillows 
please,  and  fetch  me  my  desk. — Oh  father,  Tom  is  too 
generous,  too  unselfish  for  me !  I  am  not  worthy  of 
him.  I  have  been  self-absorbed,  and  hypocritical, 
fancied  my  self  above  him-  Oh,  how  he  has  humbled 
me  !  "  and  Annie  wept  bitterly,  clinging  to  her  father's 
arm. 

"  There — there,  Nancy,"  he  cried  patting  her  on 
the  back,  as  though  she  had  a  fit  of  choking  rather 
than  of  weeping  :  "  It  will  all  be  right,  soon.  Only 
get  well  fast,  you  can  soon  make  it  up  to  Tom.  Won't 


1 9  2  THE  SHA  DOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

it  tire  you  too  much  to  write  ?  What  would  mother 
say  ? " 

"  I  must  write,"  she  cried  nervously  ;  with  a  bright 
fever  spot  on  each  cheek ;  "  don't  hinder  me,  dear 
father.  I  must  tell  Tom — oh  !  what  shall  I  tell  him  ?  " 

It  was  a  difficult  task,  for  Annie  was  pitifully  weak, 
her  hand  trembled  so  she  could  scarcely  grasp  the 
pen. 

Surely  the  storm  had  wrought  good,  but  not  that 
which  Martha  Castlewood  desired.  Hitherto,  Annie 
had  only  said  to  herself  :  "  I  may  as  well  marry  Tom. 
Why  should  I  wait?  If  I  wait  a  hundred  years  what 
else  will  there  be — but  Tom  !  " 

Now,  her  whole  heart  went  out  to  him.  Good, 
honest,  kind-hearted  Tom  !  How  little  had  she 
deserved  his  devoted  faithfulness  !  How  little  had 
she  given  him  credit  for  such  delicacy  of  feeling,  such 
nobility  of  nature.  She  was  overwhelmed,  almost  as 
much  by  his  magnanimity  as  she  had  been  by  her  own 
folly  and  selfishness. 

Penitence  is  a  good  stepping-stone  to  affection.  At 
that  moment,  Annie  Castlewood  loved  her  boyish 
lover  with  a  genuine  impulse  of  devotion. 

If  only  she  could  keep  her  ideal  from  troubling 
her  life  !  If  only  she  could  forget ! 

This  was  her  letter  : 

"  Dear  Tom."  I  wonder  sometimes  that  you  who 
know  me  so  well — the  worst  side  of  the  '  me,'  that  is 
capricious  and  exacting, — can  wish  to  make  me  your 
wife. 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  to  think  of  one  day  possessing 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  193 

a  creature  so  unreasonable  and  difficult  to  satisfy  ? 
Perhaps  it  is  because  we  have  grown  up  together 
and  known  all  each  other's  failings  that  you  are  ready 
to  forgive  me  all  my  wild  fancies  and  unaccountable 
whims.  I  shall  have  fewer  fancies  and  whims,  Tom, 
when  I  am  safe  in  the  atmosphere  of  your  unstimulat- 
ing  good-sense.  Indeed,  I  am  tired  of  them  now.  I 
have  a  great  disgust  upon  me  for  many  things  in  my 
past  life.  When  I  look  back,  I  think  that  your  warn 
ing,  two  years  ago,  was  a  needful  one,  and  that  I  have 
been  chasing  shadows 

"  Something  seems  to  have  fallen  from  my  eyes, — 
a  veil,  a  mist,  and  I  see  my  mistakes.  I  see  you  more 
clearly,  too,  as  I  see  myself  more  clearly.  You  seem 
noble  and  good  and  true — far,  far  better  than  I,  with 
all  of  my  self-satisfaction  and  disapproval  of  the  things 
around  me — and — I  think  I  love  you,  Torn. 

"  Do  not  come  for  me  now.  I  am  too  sick  to  think 
of  marrying  for  a  long  while.  And  besides,  I  ought 
to  expiate  my  folly,  and  atone  for  my  last  freak  which 
cost  you  the  journey  back  without  me.  Wait  a  year, 
and  when  you  come — if  you  are  satisfied  with  your 
bad  bargain — I  shall  be  ready. 

Annie." 

Of  course  Tom  did  not  wait  the  year.  How  in 
human  nature  could  he  ? 

When  he  read  that  letter,  so  tremblingly  penned, 
with  the  pathos  of  penitence  added  to  the  pathos  of 
illness,  a  few  manly  tears  fell  upon  the  irregular  and 
blotted  writing,  then  he  folded  Annie,  figuratively,  to 
his  warm  heart,  and  felt  that,  for  the  first  time,  he 
possessed  her.  What  he  wrote — the  wonderful  man- 


!94  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

ner  in  which  his  confidence  in  himself  and  in  her 
blossomed  out  in  the  sudden  sunshine  of  her  shy 
affection — can  be  imagined  better  than  quoted. 

By  grace  of  his  ready  tact,  Mr.  Wallace  spoke  and 
acted  with  a  heaven-directed  freedom  from  constraint. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  the  events  of  that  stormy  night  had 
made  but  little  impression  upon  the  solid  Scotch  na 
ture  which  underlay  his  sensitive  temperament  like 
the  solid  rock  beneath  the  twining  beauty  of  moss 
and  vine. 

Annie,  finding  nothing  for  a  morbid  state  to  feed 
upon,  felt  comfort  in  this  reflection.  By  degrees  the 
distance  between  them  narrowed,  and  was  finally 
bridged  over  by  the  exquisite  good  taste  of  silence. 

The  reactionary  mood  which  had  dawned  upon  her 
before  that  memorable  episode,  returned  with  re 
doubled  persistency.  Annie's  own  individuality, — 
the  Self  that  had  so  insistently  made  itself  felt  all  her 
life — was  in  abeyance.  She  was  beginning  to  dwell 
upon  a  healthier  plane  ;  and  this  state  of  mind  was 
tacitly  recognized  at  the  Homestead. 

The  mother  wondered  in  silence ;  for  the  fact  of  a 
reconciliation  between  Tom  and  herself  was  a  secret 
which  Annie  and  her  father  kept  between  them. 

"  Don't  tell  mother — just  yet,"  she  had  pleaded  ; 
"  I  think,  somehow,  that  she  may  be  disappointed." 

For  Annie's  keen  intuition  had  long  ago  led  her  to 
penetrate  her  mother's  satisfaction  in  the  turn  affairs 
had  taken  ;  and  she  was  not  slow  to  perceive  that 
Mr.  Wallace's  conduct  towards  herself  was  watched 
with  a  stealthy  eagerness  which  betrayed  a  certain 
unspoken  desire. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  I9S 

In  his  own  mind,  Mr.  Wallace  had  misgivings  about 
the  condition  of  her  love-affair.  As  once,  he  had 
wished  to  deter  her  from  the  hasty  engagement  with 
Tom  Hatherton,  he  now  perceived  that  it  was  possibly 
the  only  future  which  would  be  offered  to  the  girl. 
Moreover,  he  had  honestly  liked  Tom,  on  his  last  visit ; 
and  the  thought  that  his  own  personality  had  pro 
bably  created  a  separation  between  the  two,  caused 
him  acute  wretchedness.  While  Annie  was  con 
cluding  that  he  had  forgotten  all  about  the  storm 
and  its  unpleasant  revelations,  he  was  pointedly  re 
collecting  the  fact  that  Tom  had  walked  away  without 
a  word,  and  probably  never  meant  to  return. 

His  fine  fastidiousness  shrank  from  speaking  to 
Mrs.  Castlewood  about  so  personal  a  matter  ;  he 
feared  that  it  might  distress  the  good  Squire,  whom 
he  had  learned  to  love  tenderly.  There  was  no  one 
but  Annie  herself. 

It  came  out  as  if  quite  unpremeditated,  one  Sabbath 
morning  as  they  walked  together  down  the  green  lane 
to  the  little  church,  through  the  twitter  of  birds  and 
the  sea-blown  air : 

"  Why  is  it,  Nancy,  that  I  never  hear  you  speak 
of  your  marriage  ?  Am  I  too  old  to  be  your  confi 
dant  ? " 

He  smiled  upon  her  ;  but  Annie  felt, — with  a  sud 
den  flash  of  her  old  intuitive  perception  of  this  man's 
meaning, — the  trouble,  the  pain,  of  his  thought. 

Her  soft  eyes  searched  his  face:  then  she  answered 
simply  : 

"  Perhaps  because  it  seems  a  long  way  off.  And 
yet  it  may  happen  at  any  time,  Mr.  Wallace." 


I96  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

(Tom's  last  letter  having  threatened  an  immediate 
appearance.) 

A  sudden  pure  joy  shone  out  upon  John  Wallace's 
countenance,  like  the  light  from  behind  a  cloud  which 
was  so  placid  you  did  not  recognize  it  for  a  cloud. 

"  I  am  very  glad  for  you  child.  I  am  very  thank 
ful." 

"  You  approve  of  it,  then  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart.  I  ought  to  apologize  that 
some  time  ago,  my  solicitude  forbade  my  reading  your 
fortune  aright.'  Tom  is  a  noble  man,  Annie.  He 
will  make  you  happy." 

Somehow — she  did  not  know  why — the  tears  were 
running  down  her  cheeks. 

"  He  is  noble,"  she  said  earnestly.  "  Of  his  own 
free  will,  he  offered  me  forgiveness  for — many  things. 
I  trust  I  may  make  him  happy/' 

"  What  a  sweet,  young  story  it  is,  after  all,"  said  the 
other  musingly.  "  The  world  is  so  old,  Annie,  and 
yet  your  life  and  his  are  still  a  fresh  and  untold  tale. 
It  is  like  the  birds  in  the  nest — the  flowers  in  the 
meadow — young — young,  each  year.  May  you  be 
blest,  child,  with  an  ever  young  heart. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Wallace,"  cried  the  girl  lifting  her  sweet 
tear-weighted  eyes  to  his  face  ;  "all  happiness  is  not 
for  youth.  Surely  you  are  happy  in  your  beautiful, 
and  perfected  life  !  " 

"  Yes — I  am  happy.  Always  think  of  me  as  happy 
Annie." 

Oh,  great  and  self-sacrificing  soul !  Oh,  true  and 
tender  heart !  In  that  moment  of  Annie's  confessed 
joy,  thou  couldst  not  bear,  for  very  compassion  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  I97 

an  almost  heavenly  sympathy,  to  let  the  mournfulness 
of  thy  lot  cast  a  shade  upon  the  brightness  of  her 
path. 

He  smiled  so  brightly  that  Annie  was  genuinely 
deceived,  and  kneeled  down  in  her  place  in  the  little 
chapel,  crying  in  her  heart  : 

"  Dear  Lord  !  I  thank  thee  that  he  is  glad,  and  that 
his  life  is  serene  ;  that  he  does  not  need  me." 

For,  unbeknown  to  herself,  Annie's  roots  were 
wound  about  the  feet  of  this  man  still.  Still,  she  wor 
shipped  him.  If  he  had  stretched  out  "his  hand  to  her 
and  said  :  "  I  am  sad,  stay  and  comfort  me.  When 
you  are  gone  I  shall  have  nothing  ; "  all  the  new  im 
pulse  towards  Tom,  and  the  upspringing  of  instinctive 
longings  for  the  woman's  goal  of  wifehood,  would 
have  fled  as  light  mists  fly  before  the  strong  sunlight. 
She  would  have  fallen  before  him  and  cried — "  I  will 
never  leave  thee  nor  forsake  thee." 

John  Wallace  understood.  Gently  he  put  away  the 
possibility.  It  could  not  even  tempt  him.  His  life 
was  a  broken  arc.  Annie's  might  possibly  be  a  shin 
ing  circle.  At  least,  it  was  not  for  him  to  take  it,  and 
there-with  piece  out  the  shattered  round  of  his  own 
existence. 

As  he  stood  at  the  lectern  that  morning,  Annie 
watched  his  uplifted  face  and  said  to  herself  : 

"  I  used  to  think  that  radiant  look  was  all  heavenly. 
Now — I  know  that  he  is  happy  on  this  earth." 

And  Annie,  too,  was  radiant.  She  thought  that  the 
lingering  sense  she  had  felt,  of  some  hidden  force 
slumbering  in  her  being,  had  been  a  feeling  that  Mr. 
Wallace  disapproved  of  her  marriage. 


I98  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"Now,"  thought  she,  "all  will  be  as  placid  as  the 
surface  of  the  lake." 

So  it  was — on  the  surface.  But  even  the  lake  has 
unfelt  possibilities  for  storm  and  terror  hidden  in  its 
placid  bosom. 

Of  course  Tom  did  not  wait  a  year.  Hoiv  in  human 
nature  could  he  f  And  Tom  was  decidedly  human. 

In  six  months  from  the  night  on  which  Annie 
Castlewood  had  pitched  through  the  darkness  crying 
for  Mr.  Wallace  to  come  back,  Tom  Hatherton  stood 
up  triumphantly  by  her  side  in  the  little  chapel,  and 
Mr.  Wallace  was  in  the  chancel  while  a  clergyman  who 
came  at  his  request,  married  them.  She  had  begged 
so,  that  he  could  not  refuse  her.  Only  a  month  be 
fore  she  had  told  her  mother  that  Tom  was  coming  for 
her  ;  that  she  was  to  marry  him  all  the  same. 

At  first  Mrs.  Castlewood  was  incredulous. 

"  Thomas  Hatherton  is  going  to  marry  thee — after 
all  that  has  happened  ?  After  what  he  could  see  with 
his  own  eyes  ? " 

"  What  could  he  see,  mother  ? " 

Annie's  countenance  was  pale,  and  she  stood  look 
ing  directly  into  her  mother's  face.  The  latter 
flinched,  somewhat,  but  she  made  one  last  bold  play 
for  her  lost  game. 

"  He  could  see  that  thee  has  never  felt  one  atom  of 
love  for  him  ;  he  could  see  that  thy  heart  will  never 
be  his  ;  he  could  see  that  thee  has  but  one  thought 
—John  Wallace." 

The  two  women  stood  looking  at  each  other,  one 
with  accusing  eyes,  the  other  with  defiant  ones. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  199 

Presently    Annie    spoke    slowly,  determined    to    say 
nothing  which  might  bring  her  regrets. 

"  Whatever  he  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  he  was 
magnanimous  enough  to  forget.  I  hope  that  my 
mother  will  do  the  same." 

It  was  so  gentle  a  rebuke,  so  like  the  soft  answer 
which  turneth  away  wrath,  that  Martha  Castlewood 
was  touched  and  frankly  begged  her  daughter's  for 
giveness  for  referring  to  what  she  said  was,  after  all, 
but  a  blunder  of  delirium. 

"  Only  I  have  thought,  all  this  while,  that  it  might 
have  been  "• 

She  looked  steadily  at  Annie. 

"  No,"  said  the  girl  turning  away,  while  the  delicate 
color  came  and  went  in  her  cheeks — "  it  could  never 
have  been." 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Castlewood  took  a  step  forward  and 
folded  her  daughter  in  her  arms,  with  that  dry  sob 
in  her  throat  which  comes  to  people  who  have  outlived 
the  period  of  easy  tears.  It  had  rushed  over  her  con 
vincingly  that  John  Wallace  had  never  "  spoken  ;  "  that 
Annie  was  marrying,  not  where  she  would,  but  where 
she  might. 

"  Never  mind  all  that,  mother,  dear,"  said  Annie 
softly,  stroking  the  elder  woman's  lightly  silvered 
hair.  "  Don't  fret  about  me,  or  think  that  I  am  not 
content.  Indeed,  I  believe  that  I  shall  be  happier 
with  Tom  than  I  could  have  been  with — any  other 
person." 

The  dignity  of  her  reserve  was  so  nicely  balanced, 
that  Annie  could  give  a  filial  confidence  to  her  parents 
without  ever  naming  the  name  of  any  hope  she  may 


200  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

have  secretly  treasured — if,  indeed,  she  knew  that  she 
treasured  it. 

"  You  know,  little  mother,"  she  went  on  half  play 
fully,  "  that  Tom  is  not  introspective  or  analytic,  and 
that  is  just  what  I  need.  I  have  thought  too  much 
about  my  thoughts,  and  felt  too  much  about  my  feel 
ings,  and  got  into  a  morbid  state  of  self-contemplation 
— you  know  what  I  mean,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  with  another  dry  sob,  "  I  comprehend  thee, 
daughter  ;  but  I  have  been  helpless  to  avert  this  con 
dition.  It  is  my  own  wayward  and  discontented  self 
of  long  ago  that  has  reappeared  in  thee,  causing  thee 
nameless  longings  and  undefined  aspirations.  I  have 
never  been  able  to  come  near  thee,  barred  out  of  thy 
heart  by  a  too  close  similitude  of  texture.  There 
must  be  some  contrasts  before  there  is  true  affin- 
ity." 

"  I  know  that,  mother :  that  is  why  I  say  Tom 
will  be  good  for  me.  He  has  never  been  troubled  with 
heart  searchings  or  soul  strivings.  It  is  just  such  a 
practical  affinity  that  my  unpractical  nature  requires." 

"  It  is  not  that  I  have  not  understood  thee,"  Martha 
went  on  plaintively,  taking  no  heed  of  Tom's  reap 
pearance  in  the  conversation,  but  that  I  have  under 
stood  thee  too  well  to  meddle  with  thy  complex  nature 
which  I  knew  must  work  out  its  own  contentment  or 
misery.  But  I  have  suffered,  Annie,  in  being  thus 
left  upon  the  outside  of  thy  life  " 

"Dear mother,"  cried  Annie  kissing  her  tenderly — 
"  how  sorry  I  am  that  you  have  wanted  my  confidence, 
while  I  egotistically  fancied  myself  misunderstood. 
How  strange  it  is  that  one  heart  born  of  another  heart. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  2OI 

does  not  nestle  to  that  other  as  to  a  home,  but  is  ever 
wandering  in  search  of  rest  outside." 

"That  thought  has  often  haunted  me,  daughter.  I 
have  felt  that  it  is  in  this  subtle  manner  wherein  the 
sins  of  the  parents  are  visited  upon  the  children.  I 
was  wilful,  Annie,  before  thee  was  born;  I  did  not  want 
thee  ;  I  rebelled  against  thee  as  a  burden.  And  I 
have  borne  my  punishment  ever  since,  in  having  thy 
restless  nature, — so  fatally  like  my  own, — elude  and 
stand  apart  from  me  as  though  it  said  "I  know  thee  not." 

Annie  sat  and  pondered  a  moment.  This  then  was 
truly  the  secret,  not  only  of  her  want  of  perfect  affilia 
tion  with  her  mother,  but  also  of  her  own  incompre 
hensible  variances  with  herself.  She  had  suspected  it 
always,  but,  now  her  mother's  words  confirmed  it. 
Again,  she  felt  glad  that  Tom's  look  upon  life  was 
outward,  and  not  inward. 

"  I  have  seen  the  friend  who  has  been  so  long  with 
us  monopolize  thee,  Annie,  and  penetrate  thy  inner 
most  consciousness,  and  leave  his  impression  upon 
every  fibre  of  thy  being,  while  I  knew  that  I — thy 
mother — had  no  part  in  thy  spiritual  vitality." 

Martha  Castlewood's  voice  sounded  like  a  wail.  An 
nie  sat,  conscience  smitten,  only  stroking  her  hair 
with  cool  light  fingers. 

"And  now,"  she  mourned  on,  "when  I  had  adjusted 
myself  to  that  monopoly,  and  believed  that  at  least 
I  should  have  my  ambition  for  thee  satisfied, —  if  not 
my  love  for  thee, — thy  whole  career  veers  about,  and 
thee  is  going  off  on  a  new  tack  where  I  cannot 
follow  thee,  even  afar  off." 

"  Yes  you  can,  mother,"  Annie  cried  eagerly  ;  "  you 


202  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

will  see  that  this  marriage  will  restore  me  to  you,  as 
I  was  when  a  little  child,  before  I  fell  into  the  mazes 
of  fanciful  dreams.  You  will  come  and  stay  with  me, 
and  we  will  live  together  upon  a  delightful  new  plane, 
forgetting  the  unsatisfaction  of  the  past." 

"  Is  thee  sure  that  thee  does  not  love  John  Wallace, 
Annie  ? " 

The  mother  lifted  her  head  and  looked  appealingly 
into  the  girl's  eyes.  They  were  clear  and  steady.  In 
the  reaction  from  her  long  dreamy  mood,  Annie 
thought  that  she  spoke  the  truth  when  she  said: — 

"  Quite  sure,  mother.  I  revere  him  unspeakably. 
It  is  Tom  who  has  won  my  love."  ****** 

And  so  Annie  was  married.  The  village  gossips — 
who  are  in  no  wise  different  from  other  gossips,  dear 
reader,  only  that  the  term  gives  the  impression  of  a 
distinctive  class — had  to  adjust  their  spectacles  to  a 
new  view  of  the  case.  Tom  Hatherton  had  not  jilted 
Nancy  Castlewood  after  all  ;  and  they  began  to  see 
what  a  very  good  match  it  really  was. 

They  had  counted  largely  on  being  dumbfounded 
at  the  splendor  of  Mr.  Wallace's  munificence  in  the 
form  of  a  wedding-gift. 

"  It  was  a  lucky  day  up  to  Joshuay  Castlewood's 
when  that  rich  man  hap'd  upon  them,"  said  one. 

"They've  held  onto  him  ever  since,  and  given  no 
body  else  a  chance,"  grumbled  another,  retrospect 
ively. 

And  now  they  waited  for  their  crowning  envy  in 
what  the  Squire's  Nancy  might  reap  from  the  chance. 

But  they  were  doomed  to  eternal  disappointment, 
since  the  substantial  box  which  came  up  from  New 


THE  SIIA  DOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  2  03 

York,  on  the  day  before  the  wedding,  was  unopened 
in  public.  Indeed  the  story  ran  that,  "  whatever  it  was, 
Mr.  Wallace  must  ha'  been  ashamed  of  it,  as  he  had 
bid  Nancy  not  to  open  it  for  folks  to  see!  " 

What  was  in  the  box  touched  Annie  to  the  heart's 
core  : — a  complete  set  of  silver  (everything  that  could 
be  made  in  silver,  the  Castlewoods  thought) — of  an 
exceedingly  plain  design,  as  unwrought  and  simple  as 
the  little  old  tea-spoons  which  Martha  Castlewood 
cherished  as  having  belonged  to  her  great-aunt. 
Each  spoon  and  fork  and  pitcher  and  pot  had  this 
only  for  ornament  in  the  most  legible  script  :  "  Annie 
Castlewood."  It  was  backed  by  a  substantial  check 
for  Tom,  which,  Mr.  Wallace  said,  would  help  them 
line  their  nest. 

It  not  only  served  to  line  the  nest,  but  to  secure  a 
very  modest  little  one  in  a  neighborhood  distinctly 
apart  from  the  fashionable  centres  of  the  busy  city. 

Perhaps  it  did  not  occur  even  to  Annie  herself,  after 
the  quiet  ceremony  was  over,  and  the  tearful  good-byes 
were  said,  that  "  the  wedding  " — the  greatest  of  all 
events  in  the  life  of  most  girls, — was  to  her  a  much  less 
marked  occasion  than  the  different  periods  she  had 
marked  in  her  vivid  acquaintance  with  John  Wallace. 
Each  one  of  these  stood  out  as  a  distinct  episode  in 
her  existence. 

There  was  the  day  on  which  he  had  first  stood  in 
the  doorway,  tall  and  stately  and  benign  ;  there  was 
the  morning  when  he  had  offered  to  teach  her  French 
and  German  ;  there  were  several  occasions  during  the 
two  following  years,  in  which  she  had  felt  a  thrill  from 
his  magnetism,  not  easily  forgotten.  There  was  the 


204  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

day  on  which  she  had  told  him  of  her  engagement, 
and  he  had  said  in  that  low  mesmeric  voice  of  his : — 
"  Child,  are  you  not  liappy  as  you  are  ?  " 

Then  there  was  the  evening  when  she  had  beheld 
him, — with  that  peculiar  inner  vision  which  he  him 
self  seemed  to  have  imparted  to  her, — rise  before  her 
in  priest's  robes,  with  uplifted  hands  of  benediction, 
and  a  great  light  in  his  face.  That  was  the  most 
vivid  impression  of  all,  unless  it  was  the  next  one, 
when  she  saw — something  saw  it  ! — the  waves  go 
over  his  white  face  in  the  midst  of  a  great  storm  at 
sea.  Truly,  her  mother  had  spoken  aright,  when 
she  said  that  John  Wallace  had  marked  her  with  his 
personality  !  That  had  been  an  absorbing  friendship. 

Her  love  for  Tom  was  not  at  all  absorbing.  It  was 
her  allotted  portion.  The  other  was  a  beatific  gift. 

And  still  Annie  realized  that  Tom's  love  was  more 
wholesome.  She  fancied  it  would  prove  more  satisfy 
ing.  She  was  still  drifting  with  an  under-current ; 
but  she  did  not  know  it ;  for,  as  yet,  her  head  was 
above  water. 

In  this  sudden  reaction  against  the  influence  of  the 
man  she  had  idolized, — or  was  it  only  idealized  ? 
— Annie  had  begun  to  fancy  the  whole  friendship 
unnatural  and  therefore  undesirable.  The  recoil 
was  born  of  that  night  when  she  had  flung  her 
self  upon  him  in  a  frenzy  of  incoherent  emotions,  and 
he  had  held  her  aloof  with  so  cool  and  measured  an 
impersonality. 

Her  pride  had  suffered  a  shock  which  had  roused 
her,  and  put  her  upon  her  mettle.  In  the  first  mor 
tification  of  recollection  she  had  said  bifterlv  : 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  205 

"  He  has  been  a  curse  to  me  rather  than  a  blessing. 
He  has  nearly  spoiled  my  life  instead  of  helping  it. 
I  have  grown  morbid,  and  my  actual  surrounding  are 
unreal  to  me,  while  he  has  fostered  in  me  only  the 
imaginary  and  the  unsatisfying.  " 

Then  had  come  a  great  wave  of  repentance  that 
she  should  accuse  this  good  man,  who  had  not 
thought  at  all  to  make  or  mar  her  insignificant  for 
tunes,  but  had  merely  stretched  to  her  the  helping 
hand  he  stretched  to  all. 

After  that,  the  two  ideas  settled  themselves  quies 
cently,  and  when  John  Wallace  asked  her  about 
her  marriage,  the  whole  subject  rolled  from  her 
mind.  They  stood,  she  thought,  upon  the  old  footing, 
outwardly;  while  for  herself,  she  was  upon  a  secure 
plane  of  honest  purpose  and  sound  good  sense.  Mr. 
Wallace's  influence  had  been  stretched  to  the  utter 
most.  She  had  let  slip  her  end.  Henceforth,  she 
was  to  be  untramelled  by  any  vestige  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A    LONELY    MAN. 

"  /  am  on  earth  as  good  as  out  of  it  : 
A  relegated  priest :  when  exile  ends 
I  mean  to  do  my  duty  and  live  long. 
She  and  I  are  mere  strangers  now  ;  but  priests 
Should  study  passion  ;  how  else  cure  mankind 
Who  come  for  help  in  passionate  extremes  !  " 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

ANNIE  had  gone.  If  the  shadows  deepened  around 
John  Wallace's  life,  he  did  not  betray  it.  A  part  of 
the  dicipline  of  his  lot  had  been  "to  sit  aloof,"  as 
Emerson  hath  it.  Doubtless,  through  the  self-denials 
which  made  up  his  every-days,  his  character  had 
come  to  take  its  majestic  proportions  ;  for  the  soul 
grows  by  prunings  not  by  indulgence. 

His  modesty,  like  his  simplicity,  was  grand  ;  but 
little  by  little  he  had  impressed  the  Island  township 
with  a  sense  of  his  force.  True  to  the  prophecy  of 
the  poet,  because  he  asserted  himself,  the  world 
learned  to  come  and  lean  upon  him.  And  still,  he 
felt  in  his  heart  a  great  want  that  was  sometimes  a 
bitter  need.  Annie,  looking  towards  him  from  her 
new  surroundings,  with  wistful  eyes,  comforted  her- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  207 

self  with  the  thought  that  he  had  renounced  too  much 
from  his  life  to  be  troubled  by  the  disappearance  of  a 
single  girlish  figure  that  had  flitted  across  it's  long 
perspective. 

"  You  must  write  me  everything  concerning  Mr. 
Wallace,  mother, — everything  ;  "  she  had  said. 

And  Martha  Hatherton,  being  no  less  glib  of  pen 
than  of  tongue,  wrote  faithfully. 

There  was  not  much  to  impart,  except  that  he  kept 
as  usual  his  daily  routine  of  walking  ;  of  teaching  the 
poor ;  of  giving  to  all  who  asked,  and  of  spending 
long  unseen  hours  over  his  books  and  papers. 

At  one  time  Martha  wrote  tenderly  of  the  close 
and  ever-increasing  friendship  between  her  husband 
and  their  guest. 

"  There  are  days,"  she  said,  "  in  which  he  follows 
Joshua  about  like  his  shadow.  I  fear  he  is  a  lonely 
man  at  best.  Sometimes  I  am  persuaded,"  she  added 
with  that  droll  touch  of  worldliness  that  was  in  her, 
"  that  he  will  make  a  will  leaving  to  us  his  fortune. 
Not  that  I  desire  to  become  possessed  of  greater 
worldly  goods,  excepting  as  it  would  prove  a  means 
of  enlarging  our  narrow  sphere,  and  enabling  us  to 
take  a  wider  view  of  such  temporal  things  as  are 
seemly." 

Later,  she  communicated  to  Annie  a  rumor  that  he 
had  commenced  to  preach  to  the  sailors  and  fisher 
men  at  Sag  Harbor. 

"  It  is  without  church,  or  prayer-book,  or  gown," 
she  afterwards  explained  ;  "  and  is  in  truth  only  long 
and  earnest  talks  with  that  rough  but  impressionable 
class." 


208  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

Twenty-five  years  later,  among  the  papers  in  his 
portfolio,  side  by  side  with  the  sermons  he  had 
never  uttered,  and  the  Latin  hymns  he  had  translated, 
and  the  scientific  work  he  had  done,  and  the  literary 
treatises  he  had  written,  were  found  a  few  verses 
which  doubtless  grew  out  of  this  period.  John  Wal 
lace's  Scotch  ruggedness  and  strength  were  much 
more  apparent  in  his  writing  than  in  his  refined  ap 
pearance  or  fastidious  manners.  What  he  said  with 
the  lip  was  guarded  and  smoothed, — for  hearing.  What 
he  wrote  was  spontaneous  and  bold — for  himself.  For 
he  rarely  published  any  of  his  work,  and  then  only 
anonymously  in  some  Scotch  Review. 

The  rough  lines,  which  cannot  fail  to  touch  the 
heart,  even  though  they  may  not  please  the  ear,  were 

headed : 

CHRIST'S  FISHERMEN. 

"  O  Fishermen,  beside  my  mighty  sea 
Know  ye  not  that  to  men  such  as  ye  be 

I  came  with  my  first  call  . 

And  in  the  midst  of  all 
Your  toil,  I  toiled  out  my  humanity  ? 
How  can  ye  spend  your  hard-earned  lives  upon 
Such  periled  paths,  and  not  remember  One 
Who,  loving  men,  walked  once  a  stormy  sea 
To  save  them  in  their  faithless  jeopardy  ?  " 
******** 
"  When  seas  are  calm,  and  dangers  out  of  sight, 

And  all  the  nets  are  full ; 
Or  when  wild  terrors  crowd  the  blackest  night 

And  you  can  only  pull 

The  helpless  oars  and  hold  your  shuddering  breath 

Across  the  waves,  Jesus  of  Nazareth 

May  come,  as  He  came  over  Gallilee. 

Ye  know  not  when  He  cometh.     It  may  be 

At  eve,  or  midnight,  or  at  dim  cock-crow 

Or  in  the  morning  : — when  the  tide  runs  low, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  209 

Or  when  the  breakers  roar 

Far  up  the  beaten  shore  ; 

When  winds  are  wild,  or  when  the  breezes  blow, 
At  any  hour,  and  over  any  sea 
The  Lord  may  come  and  ask  thy  soul  of  thee. 

"  Perhaps,  some  fierce  night,  in  a  driving  squall 

When  your  frail  fishing-yawl 
Is  plunging  through  the  black  and  yawning  graves 

Between  the  thudding  waves, 
Still  beaten  back  from  the  far  home-lit  shore 
You  say  within  your  soul,  '  Perchance  to-night 
The  Lord  will  come  ;  and  day  shall  find  me  white 

And  stiff  in  the  white  foam.' 
But  when  the  sharp,  cold  morning  light  has  come. 

You  shall  scud  chilly  home 
Forgetful  even  to  be  thankful  for 
The  life  you  hold  as  careless  as  before. 

"  And  then,  perhaps,  some  morn  when  all  is  fair, 

And  scarcely  with  a  care 

You  rock  your  thoughtless  craft  from  the  bright  beach, 
A  sudden  gale  may  catch  your  sail's  spread  wing, 
Or  in  your  boards  a  fatal  leak  may  spring, — 

Lo  ;  ere  your  strength  can  reach 
The  smiling  shore,  you  go  down  fierce  and  stark, 
Bewildered  that  it  grows  so  ghastly  dark 
All  in  the  midst  of  sunshine,  while  your  hand 
Is  nerved  to  pull,  and  with  the  flashing  sand 

Not  half  a  league  away  ! 

Oh,  Fishermen  !  I  say 

When  the  Lord  calls,  you  cannot  bluff  your  way 
To  a  near  safety ;  while  yet  He  calls  not, 
The  maddest  gust  can  never  cast  your  lot 
At  the  sad  bottom  of  the  restless  sea. 
And  still  lie  tells  you,  '  Watch  and  wait  for  me  1 

If  so  be  it  I  come 

And  find  you  ready — then  be  sure  your  home 
Upon  the  distant  shining  heavenly  shore 
Is  waiting  stormless — safe — forever  more.'  " 
******** 

The  gentle  scholar's  loneliness  in  the  coming  days 


2io  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

was  made  more  poignant  from  the  fact  that  Destiny 
came  and  banished  his  faithful  valet  from  him. 

About  four  years  after  Annie's  marriage,  there 
smote  upon  Mr.  Wallace's  ear  the  story  that  Andrews 
— the  long-tried  and  trusty — was  falling  into  bad  hab 
its  at  the  little  inn,  where  Ben  Adams  and  his  crowd 
held  mild  orgies. 

What  a  blow  this  was  to  the  solitary  man,  only  those 
who  have  endured  exile  can  know. 

One  evening,  he  gathered  all  his  forces  together  to 
meet  the  certainty,  went  to  the  place  of  carousal,  and 
stood  like  Fate  upon  the  doorway. 

A  hush  fell  upon  the  clownish  fellows  who  were  half 
joking,  half  quarreling  over  their  grog,  but  not  before 
Andrews,  semi-intoxicated,  had  bawled  out  with  a 
great  swagger  and  hiccough  : 

"  So  you  think  my  master's  a  h'ordinary — gentleman 
— do  you  ?  well — if  you  could  see  a  grand  place  of  his 
— Yes,  sirs,  a  palace — over  in — " 

Andrews  never  finished  that  sentence.  He  halted 
suddenly,  magnetized  by  the  keen  and  angry  eyes  of 
the  figure  in  the  doorway.  Never  had  Rest-Hampton 
beheld  those  eyes  look  so  wrathful,  so  sorrowful,  so 
pitiful  !  It  made  Uncle  Seth,  who  was  prosing  near 
by,  think  dimly  of  the  Face  that  "  turned  and  looked 
on  Peter."  And  never  was  man  more  instantly  so 
bered  than  the  luckless  valet.  He  picked  up  his  hat 
with  what  shame-facedness  may  well  be  imagined,  and 
slunk  out  by  another  door,  not  moving  his  fascinated 
gaze  from  his  master's  stern  face,  until  he  was  himself 
out  of  sight. 

Then  Mr.  Wallace  with  a  brief  bow  to  the  subdued 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  2II 

company,  turned  and  walked  home,  the  sternness  unre- 
laxed  and  mixed  with  a  pain  difficult  to  realize  save  by 
one  who  has  learned  to  love  a  dog  or  some  other  humble 
and  faithful  creature  that,  after  years  of  devotion,  turns 
and  rends  him. 

The  next  day,  Andrews  disappeared — heart-broken 
and  penitent,  but  acquiescent.  That  he  had  got 
drunk  and  begun  to  blurt  Mr.  Wallace's  affairs  was  a 
sufficient  cause  for  his  humiliation  and  his  dismissal. 
Indeed,  it  seemed,  in  the  poor  fellow's  eyes,  a  capital 
offense, — that  no  punishment  could  expiate. 

That  they  two,  so  long  thrown  upon  each  other's 
companionship,  did  not  part  in  anger,  was  Andrews' 
one  consolation  to  which  he  passionately  clung. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Wallace  felt  an  attachment  for  the 
man  greater  than  he  felt  for  any  creature  in  the  vil 
lage  ;  but — it  was  inevitable. 

For  a  long  while  it  was  the  village  opinion  that  the 
valet  had  gone  back  to  England,  and  he  was  greatly 
missed  by  the  boon  companions  of  his  fallen  ways. 
But,  after  awhile,  Uncle  Seth  triumphantly  announced 
that  the  man  had  been  sent  West.  It  may  be  that 
John  Wallace,  looking  from  the  extreme  edge  of  middle 
life  down  the  long  declivity  of  old  age,  could  not  en 
dure  to  be  left  alone  upon  the,  to  him,  homeless  side 
of  the  melancholy  sea.  It  may  be  that  Andrews  had 
positively  refused  to  so  leave  his  beloved  master.  Cer 
tain  it  is,  every  six  months,  old  Seth  handled  a  large 
envelope  addressed  to  "  Henry  Andrews,  Loon-Creek, 
Colorado." — the  then  remote  wild  west. 

The  old  post-man  and  his  cronies  had  much  diffi 
culty  in  surmising  the  purport  of  these  letters  ;  but  it 


2 1 2  THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  WALLA  C£. 

was  satisfactorily  decided,  during  the  next  five  years 
that  the  valet  was  pensioned :  and  much  controversy  was 
held  over  the  fabulous  sum  which  could  thus  pay  off 
the  devoted  servant.  The  latter,  Mr.  Wallace  re 
placed  by  a  youth  from  The  Harbor  :  the  faithful 
friend,  he  never  replaced,  since  the  new  waiting  man 
knew  no  more  of  his  master's  affairs  than  did  Uncle 
Seth  himself. 

The  occurrence  seemed  to  have  a  singular  effect 
upon  him.  How  much  Andrews  had  talked,  what 
revelations  he  had  suggested,  he  never  knew,  but  the 
fact  of  his  having  talked  at  all  seemed  to  arouse  in  Mr. 
Wallace  a  long  dormant  uneasiness  and  suspicion. 

There  was  that  in  his  demeanor  which  startled  Mrs. 
Castlewood,  who  had  taken  upon  herself  gradually  a 
deep  and  lasting  interest  in  her  guest.  Presently  it 
grew  apparent  to  all  in  the  household,  spreading 
stealthily  (as  all  such  things  which  we  would  cover  do 
spread)  to  the  neighborhood. 

John  Wallace  had  become  possessed  of  a  hallucina 
tion  that  he  was  concealing  a  secret,  and  that  he  was 
watched.  He  fancied  that  there  was  something  to 
hide,  which  was  growing  to  be  a  terrible  nightmare 
to  him,  making  him  nervous  and  fearful,  even  under 
the  friendly  roof  of  the  farmhouse. 

He  was  filled  with  inarticulate  apprehensions — al 
ways  inarticulate  ;  always  by  starts  and  sudden 
changes  of  the  face,  never  betraying  its  cause  by 
words.  He  held  himself  by  a  perceptible  grip  of  self- 
control  that  was  painful  as  it  was  unaccountable. 
Withal,  it  was  so  intangible  that  no  one  could  approach 
him  on  the  subject.  For  he  never  said,  even  in  secret : 


THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE.      2  j  3 

"  I  am  in  terror  of  some  disclosure."  Only  his  face 
and  his  altered  manner  proclaimed  it  on  the  housetop. 

The  good  squire  took  refuge  in  his  usual  method  of 
being  helplessly  puzzled  :  his  wife  went  deeper  and 
was  alarmed. 

"  It  is  a  symptom  of  insanity,"  she  said  to  herself  ; 
and  she  saw  with  consternation  that  John  Wallace  was 
rousing  nameless  suspicions,  where  he  had,  in  all  the 
former  years  of  his  abiding,  only  awakened  curiosity. 

"  There's  something  behind  it  all,"  announced  the 
wise  oracles  of  the  town  :  "  depend  upon  it,  he  isn't 
afraid  to  look  folks  in  the  face*  for  nothing.  He's 
wronged  somebody,  most  like-" 

But  Martha  shielded  him,  as  a  lioness  shields  her 
young.  Every  now  and  then  some  coarse-bred  man 
or  woman  spoke  out  openly  and  demanded  the  secret 
of  her  hands.  And  she — having  no  secret,  and  there 
fore  beaten  about  by  questions  of  her  own — was  de 
fiantly  impervious  to  their  demands  or  their  hints. 
She  would  never,  by  a  look  or  a  word,  betray  that  she, 
too,  doubted  John  Wallace.  If  she  watched  him,  how 
ever  delicately,  for  his  own  protection,  he  became  mis 
trustful  of  her. 

"  It  is  only  a  nervous  condition,"  she  boldly  averred, 

"which  I  have  encountered  before in  Rhode 

Island,"  she  hastened  to  add  ;  for  Rest-Hampton  knew 
there  had  never  been  a  like  case  of  "  nerves,"  within 
its  precincts. 

"  There  is  nothing  nerves  won't  do  when  they  are 
unstrung.  All  that  Mr.  Wallace  needs  is  a  journey 
somewhere  for  his  health." 

But  to  this   proposition,  Mr.  Wallace  gave  such  a 


214  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

startled  and  uneasy. protest,  that  no  more  was  said 
about  it.  They  could  only  wait. 

Annie,  in  her  new  home,  heard  of  the  change  and 
waited  with  a  sort  of  fascinated  terror  for  the  denoue 
ment.  In  a  few  months  as  though  it  had  indeed  been 
but  a  mood,  the  change  passed,  and  John  Wallace's 
powerful  intellect  and  noble  tranquility  of  nature  again 
asserted  themselves  over  whatever  delusion  had  had  his 
imagination  in  brief  thrall.  He  was  so  plainly  himself, 
after  that,  that  the  Castlewoods  drew  a  long  breath  of 
relief,  and  Rest-Hampton  subsided  upon  the  theory  of 
the  nervous  condition.1  And  indeed,  what  else  could  it 
have  been  ? 

This  was  the  way  of  the  climax.  During  that  un 
happy  and  disordered  time,  when  the  soundest  of 
brains  seemed  in  unaccountable  chaos,  Mr.  Wallace 
and  Mr.  Castlewood  were  sitting  together  one  even 
ing,  in  a  somewhat  uncomfortable  silence  into  which 
they  had  fallen  after  many  ineffectual  attempts  at  con 
versation  on  the  Squire's  part.  (It  was  a  feature  of 
the  former's  peculiar  malady,  that  he  dreaded  being 
alone,  and  shunned  the  pleasant  solitude  of  his  study 
as  he  might  have  shunned  a  haunted  chamber.  So 
he  sat,  like  an  incubus,  with  the  family.)  All  at  once 
he  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  and  gazed  gloomily  at 
his  companion's  abstracted  face.  Some  powerful  im 
pulse  seemed  to  sweep  over  him,  and  he  rose  hurriedly 
and  began  pacing  the  room.  Then  he  stopped  directly 
in  front  of  the  Squire,  trembling  with  some  suppressed 
emotion. 

"  Sorrow — banishment — suspicion,"  he  wailed  in  a 


THE  SHADOW  Of  JOHN  WALLACE.  215 

strained  and  unnatural  voice  that  startled  the  other 
from  his  revery. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  as  if  to  reach  that 
friendly  clasp  : — "  I  can  bear  it  no  longer,"  he  cried  : 
"  Friend,  I  would  tell  you  "- 

He  stood  with  his  palm  outstretched,  like  a  man 
transfixed  by  some  sudden  and  horrible  apparition  : 
as  though  he  had  slowly  hardened  into  ice — into  stone. 

Then  he  turned,  his  face,  dreadful  to  behold  in  its 
ashen  unnaturalness,  and  spoke  no  other  word. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  cried  the  agitated  Squire,  to  whom 
the  other  seemed  like  a  spectre — or  a  dead  man,  with 
his  passionate  confession  frozen,  like  curdled  blood, 
upon  his  lips — "  Why  won't  you  speak  out  and  say 
what  troubles  you  ?  Surely — surely  you  know  you 
have  my  sympathy — my  reticence — 

John  Wallace — or  the  speechless  spectre  of  John 
Wallace — shook  his  head,  and  sank  back  into  his  chair. 
Presently  his  arms  fell  heavily  to  his  side.  His  head 
was  erect ;  his  eyes  were  wide  open  and  fixed,  but 
they  saw  nothing.  By  the  time  a  doctor  could  be  pro 
cured,  he  had  recovered  from  the  slight  stroke  which 
had  passed  over  his  system.  After  that,  the  suspi- 
ciousness  seemed  to  vanish.  The  irritability,  the 
watchfulness,  the  unrest,  slowly  disappeared.  He  had 
once  more  mastered  himself :  but  his  health  began  to 
wane  from  that  day. 

The  strain  had  been  too  great  even  for  his  wiry 
constitution.  Nature  says  to  the  floods  and  tempests 
of  the  human  heart:  "Thus  far  and  no  farther." 

By  the  time  that  John  Wallace  was  fully  restored  to 
his  natural  condition  of  mind,  and  apparently  of  body, 


2  1 6  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE. 

another  calamity  had  fallen  upon  the  rambling  old 
farmhouse  under  the  chestnuts.  It  was  mid-winter. 
The  once  grassy  village  street,  as  well  as  the  meadows 
and  old  apple-orchards,  were  covered  with  a  deep  and 
unbroken  snow.  White  heaps  were  piled  high  upon 
the  carefully  trimmed  garden-box,  upon  the  twisted 
boughs,  upon  the  gaunt  and  silent  arms  of  the  wind 
mills,  upon  every  available  ledge,  in  fact,  not  forget 
ting  the  village  burying-grounds,  whose  mounds  were 
all  levelled  to  the  smooth  slope  of  the  hill-side.  Only 
the  tops  of  head-stones  jagged  the  even  surface,  and 
gave  a  fantastic  appearance  to  the  new  winding-sheet. 

Indoors,  too,  there  was  a  mid-winter  sadness  and 
gloom ;  for  the  dear  old  squire,  whose  hearty  voice 
and  pleasant  cheer  had  used  to  break  the  silences, 
were  gone.  It  had  been  very  sudden.  Dr.  Josiah 
Clump  halted  between  apoplexy  and  heart-disease.  It 
was  the  custom  of  his  patients  to  live  to  such  a  time 
of  life  that  they  departed  their  accustomed  ways  by 
the  slow  and  gradual  process  called  dying  of  old  age: 
which  means — if  we,  in  the  rapid  and  soon-over  rush 
of  city-life,  have  not  forgotten  its  meaning — dropping 
the  faculties  one  by  one,  in  so  gentle  a  manner  as  to 
do  no  violence  to  preconceived  notions  of  soundness. 
They  frequently  dispensed  with  any  need  of  aught  but 
encouragement  from  the  village  doctor. 

But  Squire  Castlewood  had  not  only  cheated  old 
age  of  a  victim :  he  had  also  given  the  physician  an 
unfair  chance  at  diagnosis. 

His  earthly  career  stopped  short  at  seventy,  which 
was  a  departure  from  Rest-Hampton  ways,  and  a  blur 
upon  their  traditional  longevity. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  217 

"  Lord  !  "  cried  Uncle  Seth,  (who  had  been  for  five 
or  six  years  known  us  an  octogenarian),  "  I  always 
said  the  Squire  'd  die  young.  I  always  knew  he'd 
kill  himself,  some  day,  with  his  rash  way,  of  rushin' 
into  new  things,  oncalculated  and  onprepared.  I 
hope,"  he  added  fervently,  "  that  they'll  lay  him  out 
in  his  father's  military  suit  as  he  wore  to  fight  the 
British  in.  Now,  wouldn't  he  make  a  fine  colonial 
corpse?  It  would  be  worth  dying  young  for.  Lord! 
I  hope,  when  they  come  to  lay  me  out  they  won't  for 
get  my  great-uncle's  buff  waistcoat,  that's  in  the 
seventh  drawer  from  the  top,  in  the  old  chest  of 
drawers.  I've  made  a  will  on  purpose  to  write  it 
down.  Why  really,  though,"  finished  the  wise  old 
fossil,  mournfully  shaking  his  head,  "  I  couldn't  be 
happy,  walking  about  with  Peter  and  Paul,  if  I  hadn't 
that  waistcoat  and  my  grandfather's  snuff-box  !" 

The  Squire's  last  moments  had  been  peaceful.  Mr. 
Wallace  sat  beside  him  like  one  stunned.  His  eyes 
were  fixed  sorrowfully  upon  the  helpless  figure  of  his 
friend,  the  last  pressure  of  whose  hand  was  for  him. 

"  John  Wallace  "  whispered  the  dying  man  earnestly, 
"  you  have  taught  me  without  a  word,  how  a  man 
was  meant  to  live.  You  have  taught  me  faith — charity." 

"  My  clear  and  faithful  friend,"  said  the  other  bend 
ing  down  and  returning  the  fluttering  hand-pressure 
earnestly  ;  "  This  is  a  great  blow  to  me.  I  had  thought 
to  die  beneath  the  kindly  shelter  of  your  noble  friend 
ship.  I  had  thought  that  no  one  but  you  would  be 
near  me  when  I  came  to  the  last.  I  have  trusted  you  ; 
I  have  been  thankful  that  I  might  trust  you.  I  should 
have  died  trusting  you,  if — in  the  last  weak  hours  of 


2i8  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

the  flesh — it  had  been  forced  from  me  to  utter  things 
which  I  had  meant  never  to  speak.  I  could  have  trusted 
you  with  them." 

No  other  words  could  have  penetrated  with  such 
satisfaction  the  Squire's  dulling  comprehension.  A 
smile  of  unutterable  content  broke  over  his  face,  and 
in  the  glory  of  that  smile,  Joshua  Castlevvood  entered 
the  valley.  His  only  grief  had  been  at  not  seeingh  is 
daughter  ;  for  Annie  was  ill  and  could  not  travel. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ANNIE'S  SPECTRE. 

"  Could  we  by  a  wish 

Have  what  we  7m//,  and  get  the  future  now 
Would  we  wish  aught  done  undone  in  the  past  ? 
So  let  him  wait  God's  instant  men  call  years  " 
Meantime  hold  hard  by  truth  and  his  great  soul?" — 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

AND  how  have  these  four  years  of  wedded  life  gone 
with  Annie  ?  Variably,  as  wedded  life  goes  with 
most  people.  Now  and  then,  we  see  a  beautiful  mar 
riage,  in  which  all  is  an  even  flow  of  more  than  ful 
filment.  To  some  happy  women,  thank  God,  it  is  given 
to  realize  their  ideals. 

But  we  have  seen  that  Annie  consciously  relin 
quished  hers  at  the  brink  of  her  marriage,  and  endeav 
ored  to  take  up  with  a  new  set  of  principles.  The 
mental  habits  of  years,  however,  cannot  be  overturned 
in  a  moment.  The  birth  and  death,  even  of  opinions, 
are  attended  with  both  suffering  and  patient  enduring. 

Annie  had  planned  that  her  actual  existence  must 
run,  henceforth,  in  some  ordered  channel,  while  her 
ideal  life,  if  it  could  not  be  altogether  dried  up,  might 


220  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

flow  in  another.  Her  future  had  begun  to  look  fair  to 
her,  because  she  had,  in  justice,  forfeited  it,'  and 
through  mercy  recovered  it. 

Then  came  the  test.  Could  she  succeed  in  banish 
ing  all  the  dreams,  the  chimeras,  of  her  lifetime,  and 
not  find  herself  stranded  upon  a  blank  monotony  of 
weary  commonplaces  ? 

Time  would  show. 

At  first,  the  young  housekeeper  had  work  to  do, 
and  was  glad  to  keep  her  hands  busy.  It  would  be  an 
untruth  to  represent  the  Hathertons  as  absolutely  poor 
in  their  new  beginning.  Poverty  is  a  many-sided 
word,  sometimes  with  a  flippant  meaning,  bandied 
about  by  the  avarice  of  those  who  live  in  wide  houses, 
and,  having  plenty,  still  grumble  for  more.  The 
other  name  for  this  sort  of  Poverty  is  Discontent. 

It  is  ashamed  of  the  sweet  sacrifices  which  love  is 
glad  to  make  for  love.  It  looks  upon  those  simple 
self-denials  which  are  so  good  for  youth  and  happiness, 
as  hard  and  niggardly  stintings.  It  stands,  like  the 
skeleton  at  the  feast,  at  many  a  modest  family  board 
that  would  seem  lavishly  abundant  in  the  eyes  of  ac 
tual  poverty. 

This  was  not  Annie's  spectre.  She  was  not  afraid 
to  look  her  next-door-neighbor  in  the  eyes,  and  say: 

"  We  are  young  beginners  :  we  only  aspire  to  be 
comfortable." 

No — Tom  and  Annie  Hatherton  were  not  poor. 

They  lived  economically,  but  well  enough  for  com 
fort  :  Tom  was  kind  and  cheery  and  busy ;  Annie  was 
bright  and  gentle  and  full  of  pretty  domestic  concerns. 
He  thought  her  a  very  model  of  sweetnees,  and  good- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  22i 

ness,  and  all  housewifely  industry  ;  she  thought  him  the 
best  and  cheeriestof  husbands,  and  was  content. 

If  it  were  not  that  John  Wallace  alone  stands  for  the 
hero  of  this  history — and  of  the  mystery  which  shall 
presently  be  shown, — nothing  could  be  more  pleasant 
than  to  follow  the  young  couple  into  their  checkered 
career,  and  to  find  out  from  Annie's  own  lips  whether 
living  in  an  obscure  part  of  New  York,  as  Tom 
Hatherton's  wife,  was  the  experience  in  the  great 
world  for  which  she  had  hungered. 

Of  the  vagaries  of  her  girlhood,  of  the  many  moods 
of  mind  which  had  developed  under  the  influence  of  Mr. 
Wallace,  we  have  seen  that  she  took  nothing  with  her. 
Only  her  loyal  heart,  her  loving  nature,  her  large 
sympathies,  her  natural  deftness  v/cnt  with  her  from 
the  Island  village,  where  she  had,  in  dreams,  planned, 
and  wished,  and  foregone  so  much. 

She  was  happy  and  contented  ;  and  for  a  while 
lived  above  these  buried  fancies  and  went  singing 
blithely  through  her  small  pretty  rooms  as  though — at 
the  turning  point  between  childhood  and  womanhood 
— she  had  never  encountered  a  riddle. 

Tom  worked  early  and  late,  adding  little  by  little 
to  Annie's  home  comforts,  but  leaving  her  necessarily 
with  but  seldom  companionship  outside  of  her  own 
thoughts.  This  was  the  disaster  which  told  against 
her  good  resolutions,  in  the  long  run. 

If  it  be  thought  that  this  story,  like  Annie  Castle- 
wood's  girlhood,  is  too  introspective,  and  over  much 
given  to  perplexing  problems,  let  it  be  remembered 
that  it  is  in  purport,  not  a  novel  with  a  tragedy,  nor 
a  story  with  a  moral,  but  simply  a  philosophic  study 


222  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

of  character — such   an    one   perchance  as  a  modern 
writer  sarcastically  terms  a  "  psychological  romance." 

******** 

About  the  time  that  Andrews  suffered  banishment, 
and  his  master  suffered  the  last  alienation  of  his  life, 
Annie  fell  into  ill  health.  She  had  been  more  than 
four  years  married,  and  as  yet  there  were  no  children 
to  puzzle  Tom  with  the  vexing  problem  of  multiplica 
tion,  in  reference  to  what  they  should  eat  and  where 
withal  they  should  be  clothed. 

But  this  summer,  Annie  was  ill  and  depressed 
She  was  given  to  nervous  starts  and  sudden  alarms 
Her  mental  condition  deteriorated  with  incredible 
rapidity,  relapsing  into  a  strange  and  secretive  mood- 
iness,  which  had  about  it  the  air  of  mystery  or  of 
suspicion.  Her  state  of  mind  was  like  a  reflection  of 
Mr.  Wallace's  mood.  She  greeted  Tom  with  silent 
tears  or  with  perplexing  accusations ;  or  she  held  her 
self  aloof  from  him  in  apprehensive  unrest.  Tom  was 
more  tender  and  considerate  than  ever.  He  thought 
he  comprehended  a  reason  for  her  unreasonable  state, 
and  his  gentleness  and  patience  never  failed.  It  is 
upon  such  emergencies  that  the  uses  of  a  sunny  na 
ture  and  a  somewhat  unreflective  texture  of  mind  be 
come  most  apparent.  Tom  was  able,  through  his 
good  nature  and  his  absence  of  imaginativeness,  to 
manage  bravely.  As  for  Annie,  she  struggled  against 
the  terrible,  and,  even  to  herself,  unaccountable  cloud, 
as  she  had  never  struggled  in  her  life.  It  was  dreadful 
to  her  ;  but  yet  it  overwhelmed  her.  Her  struggling 
was  of  no  avail. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  223 

All  this  while,  her  mind  ran  steadily  upon  John 
Wallace.  She  saw  him  sitting,  moody  and  depressed 
before  the  lire  ;  she  pictured  him  pacing  the  floor 
with  irritable  unrest ;  she  fancied  him  starting  up  and 
turning  an  alarmed  face  to  every  one  who  entered  the 
room.  Her  mother  had  written  her  elaborately  of  his 
unaccountable  mental  condition  ;  but  these  pictures 
were  all  Annie's  own,  and  they  haunted  her  with  -a 
ghostly  persistency  that  was  incredible  to  her.  More 
over,  their  absolute  truth  of  aspect,  and  precision  of 
detail  made  them  terrifying. 

"  If  he  would  only  come  here,"  she  muttered  over 
and  over  ;  "  I  might  help  him  :  If  I  could  only  sec 
him  "- 

And  one  evening,  he  came. 

Looking  up  suddenly  from  a  book  she  had  been  try. 
ing  to  read  while  she  waited  for  Tom's  return  from 
business,  she  beheld  standing  tall  and  erect  in  the 
doorway,  the  form  of  John  Wallace.  He  seemed  to 
tremble  with  some  painful  emotion,  and  the  beautiful 
serious  light  which  had  made  his  face  divine  was 
blurred  and  gone.  His  hand  was  outstretched  as 
though  in  utmost  appeal  from  an  overwhelming  calam 
ity  ;  and  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  come  from  the 
depths  of  some  remote  despair,  he  cried  to  her: 

"  Sorrow — banishment — suspicion  !  I  can  bear  it 
no  longer.  Friend,  I  would  tell  you— 

The  voice  died  away,  as  the  wind  dies  away  after  a 
sudden  gust. 

"  O  my  God  !  What  is  it  ?  what  has  happened  to 
you  ?  "  burst  from  Annie's  lips.  She  sprang  forward 


224  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

and  seized  his  outstretched  hand  in  both  her  own. 
There  was  nothing  there. 

When  Tom  came  in,  half  an  hour  later,  Annie  was 
lying  upon  the  floor,  face  downward,  in  a  dead  faint. 
He  was  much  alarmed  and  rushed  for  a  near  doctor. 
after  placing  her  upon  her  back,  and  trying  the  ineffi- 
cacy  of  cold  water  and  sal  volatile. 

When  the  white  lids  finally  unclosed  from  the  soft 
eyes,  there  was  a  certain  blankness  in  Annie's  vision 
which  suggested  blindness,  or  an  absence  of  con 
sciousness  that  would  have  terrified  a  more  imagina 
tive  person  than  Tom.  They  kept  turning  obstin 
ately  to  the  door,  and  had  a  sort  of  dazed  astonish 
ment  in  them  for  which  the  doctor  could  in  no  way 
account. 

"  Talk  to  her,  Mr.  Hatherton,"  he  said,  as  Annie 
sat  up  and  stared  at  the  door :  "  I  want  to  see  if  she 
is  quite  conscious." 

"  Yes — I  am  quite  conscious,"  she  answered  quietly, 
her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  vacancy. 

"Then  why  don't  you  look  at  me,  Nancy,  dear  ?" 
cried  Tom,  the  perspiration  standing  upon  his  honest 
forehead  :  "  What  ailed  you,  darling  ;  tell  me." 

But  Annie  shook  her  head,  and  answered  "  noth 
ing." 

"  Could  anything  have  frightened  her,"  queried  the 
doctor  who  had  good  perceptions,  and  meant  to  know, 
if  he  could,  the  reason  of  his  patient's  singular  look. 

"  Did  any  one  come  in  and  startle  you,  Nancy  ?  " 

Tom  asked  the  question  unhesitatingly.  He  was 
sure  there  had  been  no  one  there. 

"  No — no  !  not  any  one  !     There  was  no  one  there. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  225 

Why  do  you  ask  such  foolish  questions,  Tom  ? " 
Annie  still  looked  terrified. 

The  physician  watched  her  critically. 

"  If  anything  occurred,  Mrs.  Hatherton,  to  alarm 
you,"  he  said  coldly,  "  you  had  much  better  tell  me. 
I  could  then  know  what  to  do  for  you." 

Annie  sprang  up  angrily. 

"  Who  asked  you  to  do  anything  for  me  ? "  she 
cried.  "  I  am  very  well,  only  a  little  nervous.  You 
have  seen  women  faint  before,  I  suppose  ? " 

The  doctor  rose  with  dignity.  He  quietly  asked 
Tom  to  call  and  see  him  later,  if  his  wife  were  able  to 
be  left,  then  made  his  adieus,  leaving  some  simple 
prescription,  which  he  thoughtfully  came  back  to  say 
he  would  have  put  up,  rightly  supposing  that  they 
had  no  one  to  send. 

When  he  had  gone,  Annie  turned  fiercely  upon  her 
husband. 

"  Never  refer  to  this  absurd  swooning  again.  I  do 
not  wish  to  hear  about  it,  or  to  see  that  stupid  doctor. 
It  was  only  a  passing  dizziness."  And  her  restless 
eyes  sought  the  door  once  more. 

The  doctor  was  not  "stupid."  Nevertheless,  when 
Tom  surreptitiously  called  upon  him  and  explained 
Annie's  condition  and  her  nervous  alarms  of  the  past 
two  or  three  months,  he  shook  his  head  affirmatively 
and  told  Tom  that  it  was  only  physical,  and  that  time 
would  soon  cure  it. 

That  was  the  evening  on  which  Mr.  Wallace  had 
the  slight  paralytic  stroke.  About  a  week  afterwards, 
came  a  voluminous  letter  from  Martha  Castlewood, 
telling  of  the  climax  to  his  singular  symptoms,  and 


226  THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE. 

that  she  no  longer  feared  insanity.  "  He  seems  to 
have  found  relief  in  some  mysterious  fashion,  and  is 
now  quite  like  himself,"  she  finished. 

But  Annie  brooded  continually,  thiswise: 

"  If  it  were  possible  that  during  the  crisis  of  his 
passing  mental  aberration,  the  spirit  of  John  Wallace 
had  come  to  me,  does  it  not  argue  upon  my  own  part 
a  terrifying  mental  susceptibility  ?  and  why  during 
those  brief  clairvoyant  moods  (she  was  becoming  dimly 
acquiescent  to  what  her  mother  would  have  called 
'  spiritual  visitations')  did  I  only  see  the  man  as  he 
was,  never  as  he  had  been.  If  I  must  endure  the 
misery  of  a  secret  divination,  a  clandestine  spirit- 
meeting — I  know  not  what  to  call  it ! — why  could  I 
not  penetrate  the  mystery  which  broods  over  his 
past?"  (She  had  never  before  acknowledged  or 
realized  how  she  had  desired  to  lift  that  veil.) 

"  Only  once,"  she  continued  in  her  perplexity, 
"  was  it  given  me  to  see  him  in  that  other  sphere 
from  which  he  came.  He  was  less  a  phantom  to 
me  then  than  he  must  seem  to  himself  in  the  shad 
ow-life  he  leads  in  his  exile.  O  great  and  good  man  ! 
again  I  ask  what  calamity  has  befallen  him  ! " 

Still  she  grew  less  nervous,  by  slow  degrees  and 
finally  the  clammy  horror,  that  had  fastened,  snake- 
like,  upon  her  brain,  seemed  to  have  glided  away. 

Mr.  Wallace,  too,  had  recovered  his  usual  mental 
vigor  which  never  again  deserted  him.  And  Annie 
never  had  another  "  visitation "  as  she  scornfully 
called  it  to  herself.  The  result  of  that  one,  however, 
was  startling. 

In  the  autumn,  when  the  birds  were   flying  south, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  227 

and  a  thin  vapor  was .  clouding  the  sparkle  of  the 
mornings  and  the  glow  of  the  evenings,  a  son  was 
born  to  Tom  and  Annie 

During  the  illness  incident  to  that  event,  another 
revelation  was  given  to  the  kind  and  devoted  hus 
band,  which  was  a  far  keener  blow  than  that  which 
had  fallen  upon  his  wooing.  John  Wallace,  it  ap 
peared,  had  dogged  their  married  life,  very  much  as 
he  had  tracked  Annie's  maiden  affections,  with  what 
strange  power  of  infatuation  he  could  not  divine. 

Annie  was  delirious :  and  in  her  ravings  she  called 
only  upon  one  name.  This  dominating  master  spirit 
took  every  attitude  towards  her — teacher,  friend, 
priest,  guide,  phantom  :  never,  Tom  acknowledged,  as 
lover.  He  believed  the  truth  ;  that  the  man  was  pure* 
and  had  never  sought  to  win  the  girl's  heart.  She  had 
cast  it  at  John  Wallace's  feet  unsought,  from  first  to 
last.  And  she  was  his  wife. 

The  mystery  of  the  swooning  had  betrayed  itself- 
Annie  was  continually  starting  forward  and  crying  in 
a  voice  of  anguish.  "  O  Mr.  Wallace !  what  is  it  ? 
what  has  happened  to  you  ?  "  » 

And  then  she  would  fall  back  nerveless  relaxed,, 
with  the  blank  terror  in  her  eyes,  that  pierced  Tom  to 
the  very  soul.  At  first  he  was  disposed  to  think  that 
Mr.  Wallace  (whom,  he  pathetically  explained  to  the 
physician  and  the  nurse,  was  an  old  gentleman,  his 
wife's  teacher,  of  whom  she  was  very  fond)  had 
actually  been  there.  But  Dr.  Walton  at  once  dis 
abused  his  mind  saying  that  it  was  no  uncommon 
thing  for  women  in  Annie's  depressed  nervous  condi 
tion  to  see  and  hear  many  things  which  had  no  sub- 


228  THE  SHA  DOW  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE. 

stance.  After  awhile  the  delirium  passed,  and  Tom 
sent  for  Mrs.  Castlewood  ;  but,  with  an  instinct  of 
silence  which  delicacy  taught  even  him,  to  her  he  im 
parted  nothing.  Whatever  suffering  the  tender 
hearted  fellow  endured,  whatever  disappointment 
stung  his  generous  soul,  he  meant  to  bear  it 
alone.  After  all,  like  that  other  time,  it  might 
have  been  only  the  derangement  of  coming  illness. 
For  he  would  not  suffer  himself  to  doubt  his  wife. 
She  had  been  good  and  true  to  him,  and  until  the  last 
spring,  light-hearted  and  loving.  No — Annie  had 
thought  no  wrong.  She  had  been  terribly  nervous, 
and  then  terribly  ill.  He  meant  to  forget  it.  Above 
all,  Annie  should  never  be  reminded  of  it ;  she,  too, 
should  forget, 

Only,  when  he  came  upon  the  little  tea-table  spread 
with  John  Wallace's  silver,  the  night  that  these  pain 
ful  thoughts  were  first  thrust  upon  him,  he  broke 
down.  It  was  more  than  he  could  bear.  He  sat  down 
with  folded  arms  and  his  boyish  head  bent  upon  them, 
in  a  stupor  of  hopeless  dejection.  Then  he  swept  all 
the  silver  together  and  put  it,  with  the  remainder,  in 
the  strong  box  in  which  it  had  come,  which  stood  con 
fidingly,  Rest-Hampton  fashion,  in  the  little  dining- 
room.  The  next  day,  he  had  it  sent  to  a  bank  where 
they  promised  to  take  care  of  it ;  then  he  bought,  ill 
though  he  could  afford  it,  a  few  necessary  pieces — 
only  spoons  and  forks,  and  a  sugarbowl  and  cream- 
pitcher,  but  of  the  best  silver.  On  them  he  had  en 
graved  ;  "  Annie  Hatherton."  It  would  serve  as  a 
reminder  of  her  married  state,  to  negate  the  "  Annie 
Castlewood  "  on  Mr.  Wallace's  silver. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  229 

When  Annie  was  able  to  eat  a  little,  they  came  up 
on  the  tray.  "  It  is  a  birthday-present,  Nancy,"  he 
said,  kissing  her  gently. 

Tom  was  not  of  a  jealous  nature  ;  but  he  had  had  his 
dark  hour ;  and  he  bore  it  nobly,  unflinchingly,  with 
out  the  sentimental  solace  of  adjusting  cause  and  effect, 
which  enables  many  people  to  console  themselves 
with  placing  their  troubles  in  a  picturesque  light. 

To  Tom,  it  was  a  hard,  dry  fact  ;  and  he  endured  it. 
What  varnishing  he  did,  was  not  to  ameliorate  his  own 
suffering,  but  to  shield  and  excuse  his  wife. 

If  we  have  despised  young  Hatherton  in  the  past 
dear  reader,  let  us  now  forever  remember  him  as 
capable  of  that  rarest  quality — unconscious  heroism. 

The  little  boy  throve  finely.  Annie,  too,  was  grown 
well  and  strong,  without  a  shade  upon  her  of  those 
previous  months  of  mental  wretchedness.  If  she  re 
called  the  details  of  that  time,  or  any  of  her  painful 
hallucinations,  she  never  referred  to  them.  They  sank 
back  into  the  recesses  of  her  mind,  with  a  power  of 
reserve  which  resembled  Mr.  Wallace's  own.  Martha 
Castlewood  never  suspected,  and  was  content.  Tom 
and  Annie  seemed  so  happy  together — -indeed  they 
were,  in  a  sweet  and  chastened  way — that  she  was 
ready  to  say  in  the  language  of  her  people,  "  My 
daughter  was  led  to  choose  according  to  the  Spirit." 

From  this  time,  Annie  clung  to  her  husband  with 
a  devotion  which  sometimes  brought  tears  to  the 
mother's  eyes.  It  was  as  though  she  had  some  atone 
ment  to  make  to  him,  some  debt  of  love  to  pay,  which 
was  greater  than  she  could  bear.  Because  it  was 
mute,  it  was  none  the  less  consoling  to  Tom's  sore 


230 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 


heart,  who  now  believed  that — however  inexplicable 
some  things  had  been,  and  Tom  never  attempted  to 
unravel  the  mysterious — his  wife  loved  him. 

That  she  loved  him,  had  ceased  to  be  a  sentiment 
or  an  assertion  with  Annie.  It  had  become,  from  the 
hour  that  she  looked  into  her  baby's  face,  the  actual, 
unquestionable  and  soul-satisfying  certainty  of  her  ex 
istence,  against  which  she  felt  that  other  sway,  which 
she  had  so  long  struggled  with,  could  never  again  pre 
vail.  To  be  sure,  it  was  the  fifth  year  of  their  mar 
riage,  when  Tom  and  Annie  Hatherton  entered  finally 
into  their  haven  of  rest — an  unalloyed  and  mutual 
devotion,  at  which  stories  may  as  well  finish,  for 
there  are  thereafter  no  questions,  or  uncertainties, 
or  changes  possible.  And  unbroken  peace  of  mind 
does  not  make  a  good  background  to  a  romance. 

The  baby  was  a  marvel  to  them,  as  is  always  the 
case  when  one  turns  up,  unexpectedly,  after  several 
childless  years.  It  is  therefore  a  great  step  towards 
insuring  a  welcome,  for  the  first-born  to  delay  its  ap 
pearance.  Moreover,  when  two  people  have  come, 
through  many  misunderstandings,  to  love  each  other 
restfully,  there  is  an  added  peace  of  mind  in  "  the 
baby." 

One  day,  bending  over  its  crib,  the  proud  and  happy 
father  looked  trustfully  into  his  wife's  face  : 

"  Nancy,  suppose  we  call  the  boy  John  Wallace  ? " 

Annie  burst  into  tears — the  first  she  had  shed  in 
the  two  happy  months  since  the  child's  birth. 

"  Oh  Tom  !  "  she  cried,  clinging  to  his  neck,  "  why 
are  you  so  good  and  true  and  generous !  You  would 
break  my  heart  if — I  did  not  love  you  !" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE,  231 

For,  through  that  silent  divination  given  her  by 
nature,  Annie  was  aware  that  Tom  "  knew." 

"  But  you  do  love  me,  my  darling,  and  that  is  why 
I  want  to  call  the  boy  'John  Wallace.' " 

"  '  Tom  '  isn't  a  pretty  name,"  Annie  said,  smiling 
through  her  tears,  with  her  head  nestled  happily  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  his  strong  arm  pressing  her  to  his 
thankful  heart,  "  Neither  is  '  Joshua.'  Only  think  of 
giving  such  an  old  name  to  such  a  young  creature. 
I  think  John  Wallace  Hatherton  would  be  nice." 

And  so  it  came  about  with  no  scene,  or  especial  sig 
nificance.  "  Mr.  Wallace  helped  me  once  when  I  was 
in  great  need  of  help,"  Tom  had  told  Annie  more  than 
once. 

Now  he  added : 

"  We  must  try  to  persuade  him  to  come  and  see 
us.  I'll  wager  he  abominates  babies  ;  but  may  be  he 
will  like  this  one,  he's  such  a  splendid  boy." 

The  splendid  boy  here  rebelling  against  the  personal 
conversation  in  such  close  proximity  to  his  dreams 
opening  his  big  eyes,  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  wept. 

Tom  picked  him  up  and  held  him  proudly  to 
view. 

"  Can't  you  guess  how  resigned  Mr.  Wallace  would 
look,  if  he  heard  those  howls !  " 

And  they  laughed  merrily.  They  had  come  at  that 
moment  for  the  first  time  to  speak  naturally  and  easily 
of  the  man  whose  shadow  had  at  last  gone  from  be 
tween  their  hearts. 

John  Wallace  could  not  be  persuaded  to  visit  the 
happy  couple  in  New  York  ;  but  Tom  and  Annie  went 
up  to  Rest-Hampton  for  a  holiday,  carrying  the  boy 


232  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

with  them.  Whereupon  there  was  a  christening  in 
the  chapel,  and  the  neighbors  remarked : 

•'  Now  the  Squire's  Nancy's  got  an  heir  for  all  Mr. 
Wallace's  money." 

The  next  time  that  Annie  and  her  boy  paid  a  visit 
to  the  village  of  peace, — for  traveling  was  not  so  glib 
a  thing  thirty  years  ago,  as  now, — the  little  "  John 
Wallace  "  as  the  child  was  quaintly  called,  was  five  or 
six  years  old  ;  and,  to  the  amazement  of  every  one, 
resembled  neither  father  nor  mother,  but  the  man  for 
whom  he  was  named.  For  nearly  five  years  before 
his  birth,  Annie  Hatherton  had  not  beheld  the  face 
of  her  "  master "  ;  but  the  child  who  then  came  to 
her  had  in  miniature  those  self-same  lineaments. 

It  had  puzzled  the  good  understanding  of  honest 
Tom.  The  neighbors  commented,  and  speculated, 
and  finally  raked  up  the  old  theory  that  "  Mr.  Wallace 
must  be,  unbeknown,  some  kin  to  Martha  Castlewood." 
There  were  no  aspiringly  philosophic  minds  among 
them,  else  they  might  have  discoursed  sagely  upon 
pre-natal  influence. 

Annie  and  her  mother  discussed  the  resemblance 
once  or  twice  with  some  awe,  and  then  dropped  it  as 
inexplicable.  Of  the  spectre  in  the  doorway,  no  one 
ever  spoke. 

But  to  Mr.  Wallace  the  resemblance  was  a  singular 
happiness  : 

"  I  see  myself  when  I  was  a  little  laddie,"  he 
said  tenderly  ;  "  He  is  a  bonnie  bairn,  Nancy,  and 
good  favored.''  (As  the  man  grew  older,  he  occasion 
ally  resumed  some  of  the  Scotchisms  of  his  youth, 
but  only  in  speaking  to  his  god-son  or  about  him.) 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  233 

"  I  was  innocent  looking  like  that,  myself,"  he 
resumed  thoughtfully  :  "  Life  is  an  ever-mindful 
teacher.  She  never  lets  go  of  us.  She  begins  to 
alter  our  looks  while  we  are  wee  bairnies.  The  longer 
we  stay  in  this  world,  the  more  unlike  we  grow  to  our 
first  selves.  The  boy  will  look  as  time-worn  as  I  do, 
some  day." 

Annie  looked  up  at  him  with  all  the  admiration  of 
her  girlhood  in  her  bird-like  eyes  : 

"  It  is  my  greatest  happiness  that  he  should  favor 
you,  dear  Mr.  Wallace.  I  hope  the  resemblance  will 
increase  continually,  not  only  physically,  but  mentally 
— morally — spiritually — " 

"No,  no,  child,"  interrupted  John  Wallace  gravely  ; 
"  wish  him  like  no  man.  Let  him  shape  his  own 
identity." 


It  was  in  the  early  summer  that  Annie  had  come 
to  the  Old  Homestead.  She  wandered  about  in  her 
old  haunts,  and  her  boy's  glad  young  voice  woke 
pleasant  echoes  in  the  quiet  rooms.  The  solitary 
man  and  the  child  became  fast  friends,  and  the  patter 
of  small  feet  that  followed  his  measured  footsteps  was 
music  that  delighted  his  soul. 

But  Annie's  heart  was  divided.  She  thought  of 
Tom — dear  unselfish  Tom,  who  never  thought  what 
might  make  himself  happy,  but  only  what  would  give 
her  pleasure — brave  Tom,  working  by  himself  at 
nights  over  his  accounts,  in  their  little  sitting-room. 
How  lonely  the  place  must  feel  !  how  dreary  his  soli 
tary  breakfasts !  Annie's  wife-heart  yearned  over  the 


234  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE, 

picture,  so  she  brought  her  visit  to  a  close — alas  ! 
not  too  soon. 

The  last  evening  had  come,  and  a  strange  presenti 
ment  of  sadness  seemed  to  possess  her  imagination, 
and  fill  her  with  forboding.  Twilight  had  settled 
upon  the  wide  village  street.  The  trees  swung  their 
great  arms  about  as  if  beckoning  among  their  forsaken 
shades  for  the  ghosts  of  departed  sunbeam  and  song 
and  cheer.  From  far  away,  the  murmur  of  the  sea 
came  plaintively,  as  though  it,  too,  were  grieving  for 
some  sweetness  that  had  gone  with  the  daylight. 

Annie  sought  the  solitude  of  the  South-End  Ceme 
tery,  to  take  a  wistful  farewell  of  her  father's  grave. 
Kneeling  upon  the  soft  grass  beside  the  mound,  she 
pressed  her  cheek  upon  the  new  head-stone. 

Here  Mr.  Wallace  found  her,  later,  and  came  to 
remind  her  that  the  dampness  was  unsafe.  He  stood 
looking  down  upon  her  in  his  calm  way,  and  presently 
spoke  : 

"  You  are  kneeling  on  my  grave,  Annie." 

She  started  violently,  and  a  shiver  went  through 
her  heart. 

"  What  a  dreadful  idea,"  she  said,  rising  hurriedly. 

"Your  dear  father  promised  that  a  bit  of  ground 
on  one  side  of  his  resting-place  should  be  mine.  If 
I  should  never  see  you  again,  you  will  remember, 
Annie  ? " 

She  nodded  her  head,  speechless. 

"  Your  mother  will  lie  there,  one  day,"  pointing 
thoughtfully  to  the  vacant  place  on  the  other  side : 
"  and  you  will  come  here,  with  your  husband  and  the 
lad,  to  look  at  us." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  235 

"Who  knows  which  one  of  us  shall  lie  here  next," 
Annie  broke  in  hastily.  "  It  might  be  the  youngest : 
it  might  be  our  boy." 

"The  graves  are  mostly  for  the  old,"  John  Wallace 
said,  and  paused.  Then  his  twilight  voice  went  on 
dreamily,  as  though  it  were  a  part  of  the  evening 
gloom  : 

"  It  is  a  strange  lot  to  crave,  that  one  should  be 
buried  in  a  foreign  land  among  those  who  are  strangers 
to  his  people  and  to  his  past.  And  yet,  I  am  content : 
I  desire  it." 

"  Do  you  never  care  to  sec  them  again — your  peo 
ple  ? "  Annie  questioned,  awe-struck. 

"  If  I  did,  it  would  be  of  no  avail.  There  is  a 
mist — a  veil — between  their  faces  and  mine.  But 
come,  child,"  (to  him  she  never  ceased  to  be  a  child) 
"  the  night-air  is  growing  very  chilly." 

He  led  her  gently  from  the  hallowed  spot,  and 
they  walked  home  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


-"  Thinking  how  my  life 


Had  shaken  under  me, — broke  short  indeed 
And  showed  the  gap  'twixtwhatis,  what  should  be, 
And  into  what  abysm  the  soul  may  slip, 
Leave  aspiration  here,  achievement  there, 
Lacking  omnipotence  to  connect  extremes " 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

THE  period  of  Annie's  day-dreaming  had  passed. 
Her  whole  thought  was  given,  now,  loyally  and  loving 
ly,  to  her  husband  and  her  child.  They  were  her  com 
pensation  for  lost  ideals. 

Hers  was  a  healthy  nature  : — one  of  those  sweet  and 
vigorous  souls  which  are  forever  young,  and  to  whose 
enthusiasm  the  perpetual  jars  and  hard  judgments 
and  mock-sympathies,  of  the  world  bring  no  chill. 
And  the  content  which  had  come,  after  the  first  years 
of  her  married  life,  was  none  the  less  profound  that  it 
had  been  denied  to  her  in  the  days  of  her  wooing  and 
her  wedding. 

She  had  come  upon  a  plane  whose  joys  and  hopes 
had  no  fear  of  disillusion. 

While  we  are  young  and  thoughtless,  we  look  with 
impatience  and  some  contempt  upon  the  melancholy 
strain  of  the  old,  who  insist  upon  telling  us,  whether 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  337 

we  will  or  no,  that  joy  soon  grows  desolate,  and  our 
brightest  hopes  must  inevitably  become  mere  ashes 
of  roses.  We  secretly  think  them  morbid — hypochon 
driacs — until,  presently,  mid-way  up  the  slope  of  young 
life,  we  stand  face  to  face  with  the  Eternal  verities — 
Death  and  Sorrow.  After  that,  it  is  easier  to  believe 
the  croakings  of  the  old.  By  and  by,  we  too  shall 
croak. 

Tom  Hatherton  was  among  those  forever  happy  and 
unsubdued  souls  who  are  not  left  upon  the  life-road 
long  enough  to  learn  the  sombre  lessons  of  its  down 
hill  days.  But  Annie's  feet  came  suddenly  upon — 
the  Verities. 

It  is  in  a  darkened  room  where  we  find  the  brave 
fellow  stricken  down  by  one  of  those  fatal,  mid-sum 
mer  plagues  which  sweep  over  great  cities. 

He  is  in  the  first  vigor  of  his  young  manhood.  He 
has  never  in  his  lusty  life  known  the  meaning  of  sick 
ness  or  bodily  pain.  But  there  he  tosses,  hot  and 
restless,  the  purple  fever-flush  contrasting  painfully 
with  his  wife's  white  and  anxious  face. 

The  boy  is  playing  unheeded  in  the  room.  Some 
flowers  Annie  had  purchased  at  the  street-corner  be 
cause  they  were  country-flowers  and  might  please  poor 
Tom,  are  lying  wilting,  where  she  threw  them,  when 
she  found  her  husband  palpably  worse.  The  doctor 
whom  she  hastily  summoned  has  come  and  gone, 
leaving  only  the  terrible  message  that  there  is  noth 
ing  more  to  be  done. 

The  wife  knows  that  her  husband  has  but  a  few 
hours  to  live :  and  yet  he  is  ignorant  of  his  condition. 
She  cannot  tell  him.  Death  is  taking  him  unawares. 


238  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

In  the  intervals,  between  the  spells  of  delirium,  he 
talks  perpetually  about  the  annoyance  of  losing  time 
from  his  business,  and  how  he  will  make  it  all  up ;  of 
his  intentions  for  the  boy's  future  ;  of  his  plans  to  give 
her  happiness  ;  of  the  better  house  they  will  have  next 
year.  And  all  the  while,  Annie  hears  beneath  his 
talking — as  one  hears  the  ticking  of  a  clock  beneath 
the  noises  of  a  household  :  "  He  is  dying  :  one  hour  ! 
He  is  dying  :  two  hours !  He  is  dying :  three 
hours — " 

The  thought  of  death  had  never  presented  itself  to 
this  cheerful  and  wholesome  nature.  Tom  felt  the  icy 
hand  upon  his  brow  and  smiled,  thinking  it  was 
Annie's  touch. 

"What  makes  you  look  sad,  Nancy  ?  has  anything 
happened  ?  There  was  no  one  in  the  doorway  that 
time,  was  there  ?  It  was  only  a  fainting  fit.  Some 
one  said  it  was  Mr.  Wallace  :  but  I  knew  better.  If 
he  had  come  you  would  have  told  me.  Anyway,  I 
got  the  silver." 

After  a  pause  he  went  on  almost  incoherently  : 

"  I  seem  to  be  dreaming, — seeing  things.  Funny 
for  me,  isn't  it  ?  I've  always  been  such  an  unsenti 
mental  fellow.  Too  unsentimental  for  you,  maybe. 

But  we've  been  very  happy,  haven't  we Look 

there  !  In  the  corner  ?  It  is  Mr.  Wallace !  He 
has  cut  his  throat " 

Tom  sprang  up  with  a  shriek,  in  the  very  frenzy 
of  fever,  his  eyes  rolling  like  a  maniac  and  the 
purple  flush  deepening  every  instant.  Great  God ! 
was  he  to  die  like  that?  Annie  shuddered.  The 
child  ran  terrified  to  his  mother  and  clung  to  her 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  239 

sobbing.     She  soothed  him  with  his  head  in  her  lap, 
that  he  might  not  see  his  father's  face. 

"  Dear  Love,"  cried  Annie  to  him,  beseechingly, 
winding  her  arm  about  his  neck,  and  laying  him  gently 
back  upon  the  pillow  ;  "  Do  not  think.  Try  to  lie 
still  and  look  at  me.  Try  to  remember  how  I  love 
you — how  I  love  you,  Tom." 

Her  voice  broke  into  a  dreary  sob.  She  drew  his 
burning  head  upon  her  breast  and  tried  to  bear  the 
coming  blow  quietly — for  his  sake. 

"  He  must  not  know,"  she  thought.  "It  will  be 
easier  for  him,  if  he  does  not  know  It  will  all  be 
over — soon — and  he  will  not  have  to  suffer  the  pain  of 
parting." 

Annie  did  not  realize  it ;  but  it  was  John  Wal 
lace's  life  of,  self  abnegation  which  had  made  that 
courage  possible  to  her 

After  a  while,  this  delirium  having  passed,  Tom 
spoke  naturally  again,  although  still  wandering. 

"  Poor  little  girl !  Poor  Nancy,"  he  whispered  with 
his  head  upon  her  breast  ;  "  how  sick  you  have 
been.  But  the  boy  is  such  a  fine  little  fellow — you 
will  be  so  proud  of  him,  when  you  are  able," — his 
strength  ebbed,  but  presently  flowed  back,  and  he  went 
on  cheerfully  : 

"  As  soon  as  you  are  well  enough,  Nancy,  you  shall 
have  a  change.  We  will  go  somewhere,  you  and  baby 
and  I :  you  always  wanted  to  see  the  world,  didn't 
you  ?  Have  you  been  disappointed,  Darling  ? " 

He  raised  his  head  slightly  to  look  at  her ;  Annie 
saw  with  terror  that  the  fever  fire  had  burnt  out  sud 
denly  leaving  his  face  gray,  like  ashes. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"No — no,  Tom  !  I  have  been  so  happy,  so  contented, 
She  broke  down  in  an  agony  of  weeping. 

"  Don't  cry  Nancy,  "  he  said  gently,"  you  are  tired 
out.  What  a  sorry  fellow  I  am  to  give  you  so  much 
trouble.  But  you  needn't  sit  up  with  me  to-night, 
you  know — I'm  such  a  heap  better,  I  feel  quite  com 
fortable  now." 

"  Yes,  Love,"  was  all  she  could  articulate,  as  she 
bathed  his  forehead  and  wet  his  lips. 

"  Let  us  have  the  boy,"  he  went  on,  catching  sight 
of  the  curly  head  buried  in  Annie's  lap. 

She  lifted  the  little  fellow  up,  and  after  pressing  his 
rosy  cheek  to  the  wan  and  death-struck  face,  she  coaxed 
the  child  to  lie  down  in  her  arms  to  go  to  sleep. 

"  He's  a  pretty  boy,  Nancy.  It's  curious,  that  look  he 
has  of  Mr.  Wallace.  He  takes  after  you  though  :  you 
know  I  used  to  tell  you  that  you  favored  Mr.  Wallace." 

Annie  smiled  in  response.  She  was  singing  the  boy 
to  sleep  in  a  heartbroken  voice, 

"Jesus,  loi'er  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly" — 

but  the  words  were  for  Tom.     She  wanted  them  to 
take  hold  upon  his  consciousness. 

He  seemed  to  be  listening ;  but  presently  his 
thoughts  came  back  to  earth :  life  was  such  a  strong 
good  thing  to  him  : 

"Last  night  I  dreamed  I  was  at  Rest- Hampton, 
Nancy,  wasn't  it  queer  ?  There  was  a  storm — and  con 
fusion  :  you  were  out  in  the  rain.  I  couldn't  find  you 
— I  ran  all  about  in  the  dark.  At  last  Mr,  Wallace 
found  you  and  brought  you  back.  But  you  hurried 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  341 

away  from  him  and  came  to  me.  We  were  in  the 
South-End  Cemetery.  And  you  preferred  me." 

He  smiled  so  trimphantly,  that  Annie  tried  hard  to 
force  a  smile  in  return.  The  boy  had  fallen  asleep,  and 
she  laid  him  in  his  crib  in  the  adjoining  room  first 
holding  him  out  mutely  for  Tom  to  kiss. 

Then  she  sat  down  and  took  her  husband's  hands  in 
hers.  Even  in  that  instant  of  absence  "  the  change  "  had 
deepened.  "  Tom,"  she  whispered  in  a  choking  voice  ? 
''  I  love  you  so  dearly  ;  do  you  hear  me,  Love  ?" 

His  bonny  blue  eyes  were  filmy,  and  his  hand  groped 
piteously  when  he  tried  to  pass  it  over  her  face.  But 
he  did  not  suspect.  Still,  Annie  could  not  tell  him. 
She  seized  the  groping  hand  and  kissed  it  passionately, 
over,  and  over,  which  brought  a  faint  puzzled  look  to 
the  glazing  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  he  articulated  more  and  more  brokenly,  the 
pauses  growing  longer  between  the  words  that  came 
in  gasps  :  "  We  will  go  together — on  a  journey,  where 
— shall — we — go — Nancy  ?  Perhaps — your  father  will 
go — with  us — the  snow — is  not — over  him — now.  It 
is — summer  time.  He  could — go — we — will  all — go — 
on — a — journey,"- 

Poor  Tom's  hand  relaxed.  The  last  glimmer  of 
light  and  life  left  his  sunny  eyes.  He  had  gone — on 
a  journey. 

Annie  wept,  and  could  not  be  comforted  ***** 

When  her  mother  and  Mr.  Wallace  arrived,  in  a  few 
hours,  they  were  too  late  to  save  her  that  first  utter 
desolation  of  loneliness. 

It  seemed  so  unnatural  that  Tom,  the  strongest 
gayest,  busiest  of  them  all ! — should  have  died  :  Tom 


242  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

who  was  always  young  and  happy  !  Tom,  who  had 
never  thought  of  death  however  remotely,  as  coming  to 
himself  ;  who  had  a  long  fair  future  before  him,  and  a 
son  who  would  need  his  manly  encouragement. 

At  her  father's  grave,  Annie  had  gathered  peace. 
He  had  fought  his  good  fight  ;  he  had  finished  his 
course.  But  Tom  had  just  begun  his  battle  in  the 
world — for  her  sake. 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  only  known,  long  ago  !  If  I  had  only 
never  pined  to  come  away  from  that  peaceful  place  ; 
The  fever  would  not  have  found  him  there  !  It  is  cruel 
— cruel !  " 

And  so  she  moaned  on  with  incessant  upbraidings 
and  self  reproaches. 

"My  child,"  aaid  John  Wallace  gravely,  "you  do 
wrong  to  grieve  in  that  hard  bitter  way — as  one  with 
out  hope ;  never  let  sorrow  make  you  bitter,  Annie. 
Pray  to  be  delivered  from  unsanctified  affliction." 

"But  he  was  so  young — so  full  of  life  and  cour 
age!  "she  sobbed,  still  rebelling.  "And  it  was  so 
long — so  long,  before  I  loved  him  !  " 

The  other  did  not  notice  her  last  wail. 

"  Yes — he  was  young  ;  but  that  is  good,  Annie — to 
die  young.  To  be  spared  the  long  struggle  and  down 
fall  of  life.  To  live  to  grow  old  ;  to  lose  the  fresh 
ness  of  hope,  the  firmness  of  courage — that  is  the 
hard  thing.  Tell  me,  child,  which  is  better,  to  be 
lying  there  with  his  soul  at  home  in  the  bosom  of 
God  ;  or  to  be  standing  here — as  I  stand — a  stranger 
in  a  strange  land,  with  my  soul  pent — hindered — 

He  broke  off  in  emotion,  looking  at  the  silent  figure, 
as  one  who  coveted  its  repose. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  243 

"  Oh  Mr.  Wallace  !  "  cried  the  bereaved  wife : 
"  Do  you  think  it  is  best — for  Tom  ?  will  lie  be  satis 
fied  with — his  brief  life  ? " 

"  When  I  shall  awake  in  His  likeness,  I  shall  be 
satisfied.  Do  you  think  any  earthly  content  can  com 
pare  with  that,  Annie  ?  Be  sure  that  your  husband's 
life  is  perfected.  After  a  while,  it  might  have  been 
marred." 

"  But  he  died,"  poor  Annie  spoke  brokenly — "with 
his  mind  full  of  this  world.  I  tried  to  tell  him,  but — 
it  was  all  over  so  soon  ! " 

"  He  died  as  he  lived ;  a  pure  and  innocent 
boy  in  spite  of  his  four-and-thirty  years.  There  was 
upon  his  soul  no  stain  of  having  wronged  or  injured 
a  single  human  being.  Come  here,  laddie," — to  the 
boy,  who  had  come  into  the  room,  rosy  and  happy 
from  a  visit  to  some  kind  neighbor's  house.  "  Once 
your  mother  said  she  wanted  you  to  be  like  me.  She 
was  wrong  there.  You  must  be  what  your  father  was  ; 
kind,  sunny,  tender  to  all." 

"  Uncle  John,"  said  the  child  with  the  artlessness 
of  six  years  :  "  I  love  Papa  very  much,  and  I'm  sorry 
he's  going  to  be  put  in  the  ground — Benny  Ball  says 
so.  But  I'm  to  be  like  you  when  I'm  a  man.  Papa 
said  so,  and  Mamma,  too." 

And  so  had  closed  the  sixteenth  year  of  John  Wal 
lace's  sojourn  at  Rest- Hampton. 

Wherever  he  went  there  was  comfort  and  healing  in 
his  words  ;  but  he  himself  was  not  comforted,  not 
healed  ;  else  would  have  closed  that  long  exile. 

When  the  little  nest  which  he  had  "  lined  "  for  the 
young  couple  had  been  despoiled  and  made  desolate 


244  THE  SHAD°W  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

for  the  departure,  Annie  returned  to  her  native  vil 
lage,  almost  as  much  a  stranger  to  her  towns-people 
as  Mr.  Wallace  had  been.  They  hung  aloof  from  her 
sombre  mourning  gowns  and  her  pale,  sad  face,  not 
because  "  buryins "  were  unpleasant  episodes  to 
them  ;  but  because  she  who  had  never  quite  assimi 
lated  with  them,  now  seemed  to  go  less  than  ever  in 
their  way  of  thinking.  She  escaped  from  their  ex 
pressions  of  sympathy  like  one  who  can  endure,  but 
who  cannot  yet  say,  "  I  endure."  When  the  Squire 
had  died  a  half  year  before,  the  "  chorus"  questioned 
ironically  : 

"  Hadn't  Mr.  Wallace  ought  to  marry  the  widow  ?  " 
But  now,  although  he  had  well  nigh  reached  histhree- 
score-and-ten,  they  said  in  good  faith  : 

"  I  reckon  he  will  take  \.}\Q  young  widow  now." 

But  the  two  bereaved  women  lived  quietly  on  with 
their  pretty  lad,  among  the  large  cool  rooms  and  the 
orchard  bloom  and  fruitage  of  the  Homestead.  And 
John  Wallace  was  never  nearer  to  either  of  them  than 
an  angel  in  the  house. 

The  boys  came  home  on  visits  ;  but  they  had  struck 
root  elsewhere.  Martha  grew  old  rapidly,  and  found 
true  rest  for  her  chafing  spirit  in  "John  Wallace's 
religion." 

Annie:s  face  looked  deplorably  youthful  in  her 
widow's  cap.  She  was  but  thirty-two,  and  might  well 
have  been  just  beginning  with  happiness. 

"Mamma,"  said  the  little  boy  to  his  mother,  one 
day  :  "  They  say,  down  in  the  village  that  you  are  to 
marry  uncle  John.  Is  it  true?" 

"  No,  my  son,"  answered  the  widow  gravely  ;  "  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  245 

people  who  say  such  things  are  very  foolish,  and  do 
not  know  your  uncle  John.  Marrying  and  giving  in 
marriage  " — she  continued  dreamily  to  herself,  "  are 
as  far  from  him  as  from  the  saints  in  heaven." 

"  But  they  say,"  persisted  the  child,  "  that  you 
loved  him  very  much,  and  were  going  to  marry  him, 
only  papa  came  and  took  you  away.  Is'nt  that  true 
either  ? " 

"  It  is  true  that  I  have  always  loved  him — just  as 
you  love  him,  my  son — ask  him  if  I  have  not,"  she 
added  smiling,  as  Mr.  Wallace  came  into  the  room. 
To  be  with  Annie  and  the  boy  was  his  greatest  pleas 
ure. 

k'  It  is  well  that  I  am  old,  and  that  time  is  therefore 
not  very  precious  tome,  Nancy,"  he  said  ;  "  for  I  waste 
it  all  upon  the  laddie,  here." 

"  Uncle  John,"  cried  the  little  fellow,  still  bent 
upon  the  pursuit  of  his  question  ;  for  children  arc  per 
sistent  creatures  ;  "  why  didn't  you  marry  my  mamma? 
she  says  she  loved  you  when  she  was  a  little  boy  like 
me."  ' 

Mr.  Wallace  and  Annie  both  laughed  at  the  child's 
oddity  ;  but  the  latter  hastened  to  add  that  he  had 
picked  up  some  remarks  in  the  village  about  which  he 
was  very  curious. 

"  They  ivasnt  remarks,"  said  the  boy,  offended. 
"  Phoebe  Milford  said  so." 

Mr.  Wallace  laughed  again,  and  lifted  his  little 
namesake  upon  his  knee. 

"What  did  Phoebe  Milford  say,  laddie?" 

"  Suppose,"  Annie  broke  in  quickly,  "  that  Uncle 
John  tells  little  boys  they  must  not  repeat  everything 


246  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

they  hear.  People  are  so  very  injudicious,  Mr.  Wal 
lace.  I  sometimes  think  that  the  class  of  mischief- 
makers  is  larger  than  any  other — unless  it  is  news 
mongers." 

Annie's  "  old  fire  "  still  broke  out  at  times,  in  spite 
of  the  nun's  face  in  the  widow's  cap. 

"  Well,  if  you  marry  my  mamma,  you  must  marry 
me,  too,"  cried  the  boy,  not  perceiving  quite  the  drift 
of  his  mother's  reproof. 

The  scholar's  arms  were  about  the  child,  whose 
pretty  curly  head  nestled  against  his  lonely  bosom. 
He  looked  across  its  restless  gold,  long  and  earnestly 
into  the  sweet  face  of  the  mother,  whose  eyes  were 
steadily  bent  upon  her  work,  and  whose  color  came 
and  went  as  it  had  been  wont  at  sixteen. 

"  Annie,"  he  said  ;  and  his  voice  had  all  the  pene 
trating  power  which  marked  its  mellow  cadence. 

"  Mamma,"  cried  the  child,  when  the  pause  had 
seemed  to  him  long  enough  ;  "  Don't  you  hear  ? — 
Uncle  John  wants  you." 

At  last  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  confronted  his, 
gravely  and  wisely,  and  withal,  questioningly. 

What  she  read  was  a  long  beseeching,  yearning 
passion,  that  was  somehow  mastered — guarded — con 
quered,  while  it  yet  spoke. 

"  Uncle  John  does  not  want  me,  my  son,"  she  an 
swered,  firmly  and  clearly. 

"  He  called  you,"  said  the  child,  perplexed. 

"  I  spoke  your  mother's  name,  laddie,''  said  John 
Wallace,  with  slow  effort,  "  because  it  is  very  dear  to 
me." 

"  Then  you  are  going  to  marry  her  !  and  it's   true 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  247 

after  all?"  The  little  fellow  jumped  up  and  down 
upon  the  arm  of  the  chair.  Marrying  was  but  a  vague 
term  to  him,  that  had  somehow  caught  his  fancy. 

Suddenly  John  Wallace  rose  and  put  the  boy  from 
him.  He  walked  unsteadily  over  to  where  Annie  sat, 
white  and  crimson  by  turns. 

"Child'' — hovV  low  and  altered  was  his  voice! — 
"  Do  you  know  how  I  have  longed  " 

He  stopped,  gazing  into  her  trembling  face  with  a 
look  of  anguish  ;  then  he  turned  and  went  away. 

For  some  reason,  taught  him  by  the  irony  of  Fate, 
Annie  Hatherton's  gentleness  and  tenderness  were  as 
unattainable  to  him  as  Annie  Castlewood'e  youth  and 
beauty  had  been.  If  she  had  not  known  it  before,  she 
realized  it  fully  then,  that  she  was  doomed  to  be  but 
an  episode  in  the  life  of  a  many-sided  man.  It  was 
inevitable. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE   END. 

"  /  have  done  with  being  judged, 
I  stand  here  guiltless  in  thought,  word  and  deed. 
To  the  point  that  I  apprise  you, — in  contempt 
For  all  misapprehending  ignorance 
O1  the  human  heart,  much  more  the  mind  of  Christ." 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

WE  pass  mutely  over  a  space  of  nearly  fifteen  years. 
What  was  there  in  all  that  passive  existence  of  John 
Wallace  at  Rest-Hampton  to  record  ?  That  he  ate  and 
slept  ;  that  he  thought  and  dreamed,  that  he  walked 
and  wrote  ;  that  he  served  the  poor  ;  that  he  amused 
himself  sometimes  but  was  more  often  serious ;  that 
he  was  always  reticent.  And  now  has  come  the  last 
of  the  thirty  years  during  which  he  dwelt  in  the  vil 
lage  of  Peace. 

The  little  Quaker  woman,  who  had  tacitly  welcomed 
him  upon  her  threshold  as  belonging  to  a  wider  world 
about  which  her  stunted  fancy  lingered  ;  who  had 
later  recognized  the  lofty  soul  of  the  man  himself — 
had  long  since  been  bowed  with  infirmities,  and 
passed  away,  having  received  from  him,  during  her 
last  illness,  much  consolation  from  a  far  better  world 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  249 

than   the  one  for  which   she  had  so  long  hungered. 

:  "  The  boys  "  had  married  and  made  homes  for  them 
selves  elsewhere  ;  thence,  every  now  and  then,  there 

;  was  an  inundation  of  young  life  let  loose  for  a  summer 
holiday  in  the  sweet  and  silent  rooms  of  the  old 
Homestead,  where  the  widow  and  her  son  did  loving 
homage  to  the  failing  years  of  the  gentle  scholar. 

To  keep  the  young  man  with  them,  Mr.  Wallace, 
to  the  consternation  of  prudent  Rest-Hampton,  had 
hired  a  tutor,  and  he  was  about  ready  for  college. 
After  that,  he  was  to  go  to  attend  the  Divinity  school 
of  a  famous  university  ;  for  the  boy  had  looked  ear 
nestly  upon  the  life  of  his  benefactor,  who  was  giving 
him  so  liberal  an  education,  and  said,  knowing  that  it 
would  please  him  so  well :  "  I  shall  be  a  clergyman. 
I  shall  preach  to  men  the  firm  and  beautiful  faith  I 
have  learned  from  Uncle  John.  " 

In  his  gentle  decline,  this  purpose  of  the  young  man 
who  bore  his  name,  was  the  greatest  interest  Mr.  Wal 
lace  possessed. 

He  had  grown  to  be  an  old  man  ;  and  yet  to  Annie, 
his  looks  seemed  the  same  that  had  greeted  her 
as  a  merry  child  singing  through  the  great  hall  on  that 
far-away,  misty  April  evening.  She  perceived  the 
dimness  of  age  gathering  in  her  hero's  wonderful 
eyes,  with  the  whiteness  of  Time  upon  his  head  ;  but 
to  her,  he  seemed  still  to  bear  himself  with  the  same 
uplifted  aspect,  as  though  the  mutability  of  life  could 
not  touch  him.  She  could  make  out — as  she  made 
out  the  approach  of  her  own  wrinkles  and  gray  hairs 
—that  at  eighty  he  had  not  the  unbowed  figure,  full 
of  elegance  and  grace,  and  symmetry,  which  she  had 


250  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

admired  at  fifty  ;  but  the  spirit — that  which  looks 
from  the  windows  of  the  intellect — was  unaltered. 

And  indeed  he  was  comely  yet.  His  snow-white 
hair  lent  a  placidness  to  his  still  keen  and  clear-cut 
features  ;  and  the  intensity  of  his  gaze  was  subdued, 
not  quenched.  But  there  was  a  mortal  change  at  work. 
It  was  not  an  apparent  decay  in  the  health  :  his 
habits  seemed  unimpaired  ;  but  little  by  little,  it  be 
came  evident  that  John  Wallace  had  eked  out  his 
peaceful  days  at  Rest-Hampton.  At  last,  he  betook 
himself  to  his  bed,  and  without  a  murmur,  prepared  to 
yield  up  his  long  and  silent  life. 

One  day,  he  called  Annie  to  him  and  said  gently  : 

"  You  have  been  so  good  to  me,  Annie — so  good. 
Almost  it  has  seemed  as  if  you  knew  all — and  forgave." 

He  paused  dreamily.  Perhaps  it  was  in  his  mind 
that  he  wished  Annie  to  know  why  he  could  not  have 
loved  her,  and  to  forgive  it.  Then,  after  a  silence 
which  the  widow  respected,  he  went  on  : 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  leave  a  fortune  to  your  boy. 
He  is  the  only  thing  in  the  world  that  has  this  name 
of  mine — this  wandering  name, — that  is  but  a  waif. 
Your  boy,  and  the  little  church,  yonder  !  I  should 
like  to  make  them  both  rich.  But  Annie — now  that 
I  come  to  die,  I  have  nothing  ;  my  wealth  is  not  mine 
to  bequeath  " — she  turned  her  head  away  that  she 
might  not  see  the  struggle  in  his  face  : — "  With  my 
death — my  claim  ceases.  I  have  apprised  my  solici 
tor.  No  more  money  will  come.  It  will  go — to  those 

who  have  ceased  to  know  me I  am  no  more 

than  a  beggar  who  has  abundant  alms  while  he  lives, 
and  then  dies — and  is  forgotten." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  2^\ 

His  voice,  clear  to  the  last,  and  firm  with  that 
strange  grip  of  consciousness,  faltered  for  a  moment, 
and  then  rang  out  with  a  sort  of  self-scorn. 

At  times  his  mind  wandered,  but  never  beyond  his 
control,  never  into  the  regions  of  the  past  What 
ever  was  untold  in  his  life,  he  meant  to  guard  it  to  the 
end. 

Once  he  said  : 

"  I  want  to  be  buried  in  the  South-End  Ceme 
tery,  child,  close  to  your  father  and  mother  ;  and 
close  to  the  church.  Let  it  seem  as  if  the  little  spire 

rose  from  my  grave,  reaching  up  to  God Put 

nothing  on  my  tombstone,  but  that  I  was  born  and 
died — give  me  a  pencil,  Annie." 

She  brought  him  what  he  asked,  weeping.  That 
John  Wallace  was  to  die  seemed  to  her  like  the  end  of 
the  world. 

As  he  took  the  pencil  in  his  hand,  she  noticed  that 
it  trembled  and  had  lost  its  power. 

He  wrote  : 

"JOHN  WALLACE, 

Born  in  Edinburg,  Scotland,  Dec.  31,  1789. 
Died  "  - 

"  You  will  fill  out  the  rest  for  me — in  a  few  days,"  he 

remarked,  smiling 

On  the  eve  of  his  death,  he  fell  into  a  child-like 
sleep.  Annie  wandered  restlessly  about  the  house. 
Since  her  mother  had  died,  seven  years  before,  she 
had  not  looked  upon  death.  But  now  that  John  Wal 
lace  was  passing  from  life — "  dying  of  old  age,"  as 
Rest-Hampton  said,  it  seemed  to  her  that  all  the  death- 


252  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

beds  she  had  known — her  father's  sudden  and  easy 
one  ;  Tom's  strangely  unconscious  one  ;  her  mother's 
prolonged  and  peaceful  one — culminated  and  acted 
themselves  over  and  over  before  her  eyes.  Only  now 
she  felt  an  unspeakable  awe,  knowing  that  death  was 
to  come  this  time  in  a  new  form  ;  that  John  Wallace's 
last  battle  with  the  flesh  would  be  something  more 
triumphant,  more  near  to  the  uncalculated  possibilities 
of  human  supremacy,  than  anything  she  had  yet 
known. 

She  had  sent  for  her  brothers,  who  were  tenderly  at 
tached  to  the  household  friend,  and  who  were  in  the 
house  ready  to  give  what  assistance  they  could  to  the 
sick  man. 

The  next  day,  the  last  of  John  Wallace's  life,  he  be 
gan  again  about  the  boy,  showing  how  near  he  was  to 
his  heart. 

"  I  wish  to  tell  you,  Annie,  that — since  I  could  not 
leave  a  fortune  to  your  son, — my  money  has  been 
mine  by  tolerance,  not  to  will  away — I  have  saved 
something  for  him  from  my  income.  I  hope  that  it 
will  keep  him — in  his  studies — to  bring  him  to  a  high 
place  in  the  church." 

He  reached  out  and  drew  slowly  a  small  box  from 
the  drawer  of  a  little  secretary  beside  him. 

Taking  from  the  box  several  papers,  he  handed 
them  to  Annie. 

"  There  are  the  bonds  and  securities  :  it  is  only  a 
few  thousands  ;  but  it  will  help  him  to  start  in  his 
career." 

But  the  widow,  for  weeping,  or  some  other  reason, 
hesitated. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  253 

"  Will  you  not  have  them,  Annie — as  a  token  of 
our  long  friendship? — almost  your  life-long  ?  " 

Still  she  held  back.  How  could  they  live  and 
possess  something  of  Mr.  Wallace,  with  himself — 
gone  ? 

"  Our  boy  will  be  here,  presently,"  she  said  at  last ; 
"  they  have  gone  to  the  Harbor  to  fetch  him.  He 
came  up  on  the  boat  last  night." 

And  at  this  moment  the  young  man  entered.  He 
had  grown  to  be  a  tall  and  manly  youth  with  the  open 
smile  of  his  father,  and  the  sensitive  mouth  of  his 
mother.  Over  all  was  still  that  firm  look  and  singular 
magnetism  which  gave  him  the  likeness  to  John  Wal 
lace.  As  they  looked  up,  it  startled  them  both. 

"My  son" — Mr.  Wallace  spoke  with  tremulous 
tenderness,  and  stretched  out  his  hand  which  the 
young  man  took  lovingly — "  I  am  glad  you  are  here. 
It  does  me  good  to  look  upon  your  face  once  more.  I 
am  proud  that  you  have  my  name  and  somewhat  of  my 
look.  Surely  God  was  merciful  to  one  who  had 
nought  to  call  his  own." 

His  voice  faltered  :  then  he  went  on  steadily : 
"  Your  mother  has  been  a  true  friend  to  me.  Your 
people  have  been  my  people,  and  their  God,  my  God. 
It  is  because  of  the  love  of  this  household  that  I  have 
not  been  a  homeless  man  "— 

It  seemed  to  Annie,  then,  that  her  heart  broke. 
Harry  Castlewood,  who  was  in  the  room,  sobbed  a 
sob  from  his  very  soul. 

The  young  John  Wallace  stood  white  and  grief- 
stricken,  but  mastered  his  emotion  as  his  namesake 
himself  might  have  done. 


254  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

After  a  while,  the  clear  penetrating  voice  went 
on  : 

"  I  have  saved  a  little  money  for  you,  John  Wallace. 
Will  you  take  it  from  an  old  man,  as  his  parting  re 
membrance  ?  " 

The  physician  entering  here,  the  sick  man  endeav 
ored  to  prop  himself  up  on  his  elbow,  and  spoke  with 
distinct  emphasis : 

"  Dr.  Clump,  will  you  witness  that  I  now  give  this 
lad — who  is  called  for  me — these  bonds  and  securities. 
There  are  reasons  which  prevent  my  making  a  will. 
This  money  I  have  saved  from  the  income  of  past 
years.  There  are  only  a  few  thousand  dollars — I  owe 
these  friends  much  more  " —  he  sank  back  exhausted 
upon  his  pillow,  while  the  young  man  turned  away,  the 
tears  rolling  unheeded  down  his  cheeks. 

After  that  Mr.  Wallace  sank  rapidly.  There  was 
nothing  more  to  be  accomplished  :  he  was  entering 
into  rest. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  mail  brought  him  a  number 
of  letters  ;  but  he  was  too  far  gone  to  open  them. 

"  Shall  I  read  them  to  you,  Mr.  Wallace  ?  "  Annie 
asked,  bending  close  to  his  ear. 

He  started,  and  a  strange  dart  of  suspicion  crossed 
his  face. 

"  Read  them  ? — no,  child — what  are  you  thinking 
of  ?  Take  off  the  outer  envelopes  and  give  them  to 
me." 

She  brought  them  and  laid  them  on  the  coverlet  by 
his  hand.  He  lifted  one  and  scanned  the  large,  bold 
writing  :  then  handing  it  to  her,  said  feebly, — 

"  Burn  it." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  255 

As  it  disappeared  to  ashes  in  the  glow  of  the  open 
wood-fire,  he  watched  it  musing, — 

"  Why  should  I  care  now  ?  Of  what  avail  is  their 
friendship,  or  enmity.  To-morrow,  I  shall  see  all, 
know  all.  Some  day,  they,  too,  will  know." 

He  raised  another,  and  studied  the  address :  it  was 
in  a  crabbed  and  difficult  hand  enough.  He  smiled 
in  a  faint  sort  of  scorn  and  signalled  to  her  to  burn 
that  also. 

The  third  envelope  was  directed  in  small,  delicate 
writing. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  murmured  to  himself,  a  quick  flush 
passing  over  his  calm  face — "from  her.  She  will 
not  believe,  then,  that  I  am  dying.  When  I  wrote  last 
I  warned  her  to  write  nothing  more — If  she  should 
betray  me !  " 

He  half  started  up,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  Annie's 
arm. 

"  This  is  what  you  must  do — burn  them — if  any 
letters  should  come.  But  most  of  all,  burn  hers ! — 
no  eyes  must  see  even  the  envelopes  of — my  lady  cor- 
respondent." 

"I  will  do  just  as  you  wish,"  Annie  said  soothingly, 
taking  the  letter  he  held  towards  her,  writing  down 
wards.  She  reverently  laid  it  upon  the  fire.  Per 
haps  some  woman  had  written  it  who  would  have 
given  her  life  for  John  Wallace's  love. 

Just  as  the  flames  touched  it,  he  made  a  gesture 
as  though  he  would  recall  it  :  but  when  Annie  moved 

o  * 

as  if  to  do  his  last  bidding,  he  waved  her  back,  and 
the  delicate  paper,  flashing  up  for  a  brief  second,  fell 
to  ashes. 


256  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

He  lay  for  a  long  while  as  if  asleep.  Once,  rousing 
himself,  he  turned  to  the  sad  watcher  beside  him,  and 
stretching  out  his  gentle  hand  laid  it  upon  hers. 

"  You  must  not  let  this  grieve  you,  Annie.  Think 
only  that  I  am  thankful — that  the  last  day  of  my  life 
is  the  happiest  day.  I  have  lost  all  consciousness  of 
grief,  all  memory  of  regret.  Is  not  that  a  triumph  ? 
And  yet— 

'  One  cannot  judge 

Of  what  has  been  the  ill  or  well  of  life 
The  day  that  one  is  dying — sorrows  change 
Into  not  altogether  sorrow-like  ; 
I  do  see  strangeness  but  scarce  misery, 
Now  it  is  over  and  no  danger  more.'  " 

The  last  words  were  uttered  with  a  sort  of  linger 
ing  loving  chant,  as  though  they  were  precious  to  the 
spirit  of  him  who  quoted  them.  So  he  had  been 
used  to  quote  from  his  well-stored  memory,  in  his 
long  talks  with  the  girl  who  had  loved  him.  That  he 
should  fall  into  this  fond  old  habit,  on  this  day, 
was  a  sweet  and  bitter  drop  in  the  widow's  cup  of 
grief. 

It  was  a  frigid  day,  that  thirtieth  of  December 
and  the  eve  of  John  Wallace's  birthday.  To 
wards  evening  a  wild  wind  arose.  On  just  such  a 
night,  Mr.  Wallace  had  gone  down  upon  the  icy  beach 
and  into  the  stinging  fury  of  the  black  sea — for  the 
love  of  unknown  souls  in  peril. 

But  on  this  night,  it  was  his  own  soul  that  must 
venture  forth  into  the  deepening  darkness  of  coming 
dissolution — and  there  was  no  boat  that  would  breast 
the  bitter  waters  to  carry  human  protection  or  solace 
to  him. 


257 

He  was  not  afraid.  He  knew  his  haven  :  the  Lord 
Christ  was  walking  upon  the  sea  of  death. 

"  I  know  my  God.  I  know  tJiat  my  Redeemer  livcth," 
he  had  cried  exultantly,  only  a  few  hours  before. 

But  now,  the  mortal  shuddered  in  its  utter  lone- 
someness,  hurled  upon  the  desolation  of  that  parting 
which  severs  the  spirit  from  the  body  it  has  so  long 
known.  He  moved  uneasily,  and  watched  the  figures 
of  friends  and  neighbors  as  they  came  and  went,  with 
ever  increasing  disquietude.  At  last  his  struggling 
utterance  broke  forth  : 

"  Annie — send  them  away — all  of  them.  I  want  to 
die  alone — " 

"  Some  one  must  remain",  said  the  doctor  authori 
tatively. 

"  May  /  not  stay  with  you  ?  "  Annie  entreated. 

"  Yes — you.  I  would  die  alone — with  you  !  "  he 
cried  with  feeble  frenzy. 

The  widow  quietly  compelled  them  all,  the  loving, 
the  anxious,  the  curious,  to  withdraw  ;  which  they 
did  with  some  reluctance — those  good  people  who, 
like  unlovely  birds,  always  flock  to  prey  upon  the 
sanctity  of  death. 

"  Promise  me,"  he  gasped  clinging  to  her  hand  in 
the  darkness  that  was  deepening  about  him,  "  That  if 
I  should  falter — if  I  should  lose  myself, — if  I  should 
say  aught  that  is  strange — you  will  not  remember  it 
— you  will  not  hear  it." 

"  Dear  Mr.  Wallace  !  "  Annie  cried,  kneeling  by 
his  bedside,  and  clasping  her  arms  around  his  trem 
bling  frame.  "Trust  me  as  you  would  have  trusted 
my  father.  Do  you  not  know  how  sacred  you  are  to 


258  THE  SHADOW  OF  JO  PIN  WALLACE. 

me  ?  How,  more  than  my  life,  I  guard  your  wishes 
and  would  guard  your  words  if  they  were  such  as  you 
say  ?  Do  not — do  not  fear  me !  Think  of  me  only 
as  a  soothing  presence  that  would  go  with  you  to  the 
brink  of  eternity,  and  never  carry  back  to  the  world 
the  faintest  glimpse  of  what  is  there." 

She  strained  her  senses  for  some  response,  some 
word  or  look  that  might  show  whether  or  not  he 
heard  and  was  comforted. 

If  that  revered  and  beloved  one  had  had  aught 
upon  his  mind  which  he  would  have  left  upon  the 
hither  side  of  immortality,  she  would  have  taken  it 
upon  herself  and  borne  it  silently  to  her  grave — if  so 
his  spirit  might  bound  upward  relieved  by  a  confi 
dence,  or  a  confession. 

But  it  was  not  to  be.  After  that  one  outbreak, 
John  Wallace  possessed  his  soul  to  the  last,  never  re 
laxing  for  an  instant  the  stern  composure  which  had, 
through  so  many  years,  been  his  check  and  his  power- 

Those  who  had  gathered  for  the  solemn  occasion, 
hung  about  the  door,  complaining  bitterly  among  them 
selves  that  they  were  thrust  outside.  At  last  the 
most  of  them  went  grumbling  away. 

The  wind  rose  wilder  and  wilder.  Annie  gazed 
upon  the  broad,  thinking  brow  which  betokened  the 
conscious  power  of  a  calm  intellect,  and  marvelled  at 
its  peace. 

The  servants  at  the  Homestead  and  the  few  neigh, 
bors  who  remained,  paced  restlessly  outside  the  room 
of  the  dying  man,  whispering  that  it  was  an  awful 
thing  to  leave  Nancy  alone  at  such  a  time,  and  in 
such  a  storm.  But  whenever  any  one  unfastened  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  259 

door,  ever  so  stealthily,  Annie  would  raise  her  hand 
with  a  forbidding  gesture. 

"  My  mother  is  not  afraid/'  John  Wallace  Hather- 
ton  said  proudly,  turning  from  the  hall-window,  where 
he  had  stood  watching  the  storm.  They  had  seen 
that ;  and  also  that  the  dying  man  needed  nothing. 

It  was  a  fit  night,  the  village  Pastor  said,  for 
John  Wallace's  self-reliant  and  indomitable  soul,  un 
tamable  as  the  elements,  to  go  forth  alone  and  battle 
with  the  blustering  forces  in  space. 

The  Parson  did  not  mean  that  literally  ;  but  his  el 
oquence  rose  to  the  occasion. 

"  He's  not  having  a  struggle,"  remarked  the  more 
practical  doctor.  "  He  seems  to  be  sleeping,  and  will 
most  likely  go  off  without  word  or  sign." 

But  John  Wallace  was  not  sleeping. 

Ever  and  anon  when  the  riot  without  was  fitfully 
vehement,  he  would  say  a  few  wandering  words  which 
Annie  could  not  catch.  Once,  it  was  something  about 
"  the  ship,"  and  "  the  poor  fellows  who  were  going 
out  into  the  Great  Perhaps  without  a  God  or  a  human 
hand. "  Once  he  said  : 

"  The  days  of  the  years  of  my  pilgrimage  are  a  hun 
dred  and  thirty  years :  few  and  evil  have  the  days  of 
the  years  of  my  life  been. " 

And,  still  later,  when  the  fury  of  the  storm  had  died 
away  into  a  low  moaning  sound,  he  looked  peacefully 
into  Annie's  eyes  and  smiled — his  rare,  exquisite 
smile,  that  seemed  to  bring  before  her  a  thought  of 
the  angels  of  God : — the  smile  that  she  would  soon 
never  see  again,  though  she  lived  to  be  ninety. 

"  Annie,"  the  smile  was  in  his  eyes  still ;  "  Read  to 


260  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

me.  Read  the  cummunion  service.  I  would  partake 
of  the  Last  Supper — in  spirit." 

Annie  drew  the  little  inlaid  book,  with  its  gorgeous 
illuminations  and  its  mysterious  devices,  from  under 
his  pillow.  As  she  found  the  place,  he  said,  gather 
ing  his  powers  for  a  last  effort : 

"  Put  it — in  my  hands — afterwards.'' 

Annie  kissed  the  dear  hands  that  had  done  no  man 
harm  :  and  the  two  knew  that  it  was  understood  . 

Then  she  began  to  read,  finding  strength  not  from 
her  own  breaking  heart,  but  from  the  calm,  brave 
heart  beating  its  last  pulsations  beside  her. 

"For  in  the  night  in  which  he  was  betrayed,  he  took 
Bread,  and  when  he  had  given  thanks  he  brake,  and  gave 
it  to  his  disciples,  saying  '  Take,  eat,  this  is  my  body 
which  is  given  for  you :  Do  this  in  remembrance  of  me.'  " 

Oh,  the  comfort  of  the  sacrament  !  sole  supporter 
that  can  bear  up  in  everlasting  arms  the  departing 
soul ! 

The  face  was  lit  up  now  with  a  luminousness  from 
heaven,  which  made  Annie,  upon  the  earth,  tremble. 
But  she  read  on  steadily,  bending  over  and  putting 
her  lips  so  close  to  the  dying  man's  ear  that  the 
words  were  breathings  rather  than  utterances.  Her 
son  and  the  two  Castlewoods,  had  entered  quietly  and 
were  kneeling  near  the  bed. 

"The  body  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ — which  was  given 
for  thee — -preserve  thy  body  and  soul  unto  everlasting 
lifer 

He  still  smiled,  and  his  voice  came  back  from  the 
other  world  to  finish  those  significant  words  : 

"  Feed  on  him — in  thy  heart — by  faith — with  t /tanks- 
giving"  he  uttered  distinctly. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  26l 

"  The  blood  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  which  was 
shed  for  tkee,  preserve  tJiy  body  and  soul  unto  everlast 
ing  life"  read  Annie,  with  unutterable  solemnity,  and 
paused,  to  look  again  at  the  radiant  face. 

There  was  no  sign  or  token  left.  John  Wallace 
had  fallen  asleep. 

If  he  finished  that  solemn  sentence,  it  was  heard  by 
the  Sons  of  God. 


INTERLUDE. 


PART  I. 

Comprising  the  Subsequent  Meditations  and  Determinations 
of  Leslie  Bracebridge,  Poet. 

IN  the  course  of  this  narrative,  has  just  come  and 
passed  a  chapter  which  we  called  perforce  The  End, 
because  therein  was  written  the  end  of  John  Wallace's 
life ;  or  rather,  the  end  of  that  portion  of  his  life  which 
was  in  itself  but  the  finale  of  something  not  yet  made 
apparent.  * 

It  is  the  Summer  of  1879.  Close  upon  the  heels 
of  the  Tile  Club,  there  came  among  the  first 
summer  guests  to  Rest-Hampton,  an  artist.  He 
was  an  artist  in  the  widest  sense  of  the  word, 
which  does  not  imply  a  Painter,  or  a  Musician,  or  an 
artisan  among  the  fanciful  things  of  fashion. 

It  may  mean  often  only  a  Thinker.  We  shall  call 
him  this  time  a  Poet.  And  surely  this  young  man 
was  not  a  Painter  :  he  did  not  "  do  "  the  windmills 
in  black-and-white  ;  nor  make  "  a  harmony  in  gray  " 
of  the  graveyard.  On  the  contrary,  the  two  burying- 
grounds  appeared  to  him  particularly  bright  and  sunny 
places,  and  entirely  free  from  those  lugubrious  associa- 


264  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

tions  usually  attached  to  cemeteries.  Even  at  twilight, 
when  the  painters  who  preceded  him  had  sat  in  rows 
upon  the  flat  tombs  "laying  in"  sombre  effects  of 
gloom  and  grayness,  our  Poet  would  stroll  about  in  one 
or  the  other  of  those  hallowed  acres,  in  company  with  a 
few  inquisitive  sheep,  that  seemed  to  live  contentedly 
enough  among  the  daisies  and  the  dead. 

He  thought  that  the  mild  light  of  evening  hovered 
longest  among  the  still  warm  stones  that  had  been 
bathed  all  day  in  the  rich  summer  sunshine.  And  if 
the  sea-fog,  too,  seemed  to  creep  in  soonest  there,  why 
that  was  only  natural  in  so  sequestered  a  spot. 

But  then — he  was  not  a  Painter  ;  he  could  not  take 
a  truly  impressionable  view  of  things.  He  was  only 
an  artist  at  soul.  Moreover,  he  wrote  letters  to  jour 
nals — those  great  hungry,  fact-devouring  organs,  which 
demanded  a  constant  supply  of  things  more  substan 
tial  than  impressions.  He  had  just  despatched  the 
letter  which,  somewhat  flippantly,  opens  this  story. 
Something  in  the  old,  South-End  burying  ground  had 
taken  hold  of  his  fancy  ;  but  he  had  not  yet  been  able 
to  utilize  it  very  definitely. 

It  was  a  white  slab,  not  yet  greatly  mellowed  by 
the  disintegrating  effects  of  sea-air,  which  any  visitor 
to  Rest-Hampton  may  see,  upon  which  is  carved  be 
neath  a  simple  design  of  cross  and  crown  :  John  Wal 
lace,  Born  In  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  Dec.  31,  1789  ;  Died 
In  (here  there  is  a  mossy  blur }  Hampton  Dec.  So 

1879." 

He  cogitated  a  good  deal  upon  the  simplicity  which 
distinguished  it  from  the  elaborate  eulogies  on  every 
side. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  265 

"  Perhaps,"  he  ruminated,  "  the  man  was  lost  in 
some  wreck  upon  the  coast,  and  they  never  could 
find  out  anything  about  him." 

At  length  he  began  to  be  curious  :  somehow,  the 
unknown  man  took  the  proportions  of  a  hero  to  his 
idle  imagination. 

It  is  a  marvelous  thing  upon  what  the  human  mind 
can  seize  hold  to  create  an  ideal.  A  tombstone  is  enough 
to  hang  a  history  upon ;  a  name  may  be  magnified 
into  the  substance  out  of  which  to  make  a  mystery, 
For  there  is  hero-worship,  more  or  less  dormant,  in 
each  of  us  ;  and  it  needs  only  an  illusion  to  set  at 
work  all  of  the  intricate  mental  and  spiritual  machin 
ery  necessary  to  the  making  of  a  hero. 

Our  Poet  began  to  look  up  the  material  out  of  which 
his  phantom  hero  had  been  made.  Very  likely  it  would 
turn  out  to  be  but  poor  clay,  after  all,  he  thought 
cynically,  But  looking  over  an  old  file  of  the  local 
newspaper  to  see  if  any  mention  of  a  ship-wreck  tal 
lied  with  the  date  on  the  tombstone,  he  came  across 
this  notice  : 

JOHN  WALLACE. 

The  death  of  John  Wallace  is  an  event  which  will  be  long  remem 
bered  in  Rest-Hampton.  It  has  deprived  that  community  of  a  highly 
valued  citizen  and  a  venerated  and  beloved  friend.  Although  a  foreign 
er  by  birth,  a  native  of  a  land  whose  inhabitants  are  noted  for  the 
strength  and  persistance  of  their  national  prejudices,  Mr.  Wallace 
was  a  dear  lover  of  his  adopted  country,  and  that,  too,  tho'  he  had 
attained  the  mature  age  of  fifty-four,  when  he  reached  our  shores. 
**  ##*#  *  * 

Mr  Wallace  was  a  gentleman  of  polished  and  refined  manners,  of 
extensive  information,  of  cultivated  taste  and  possessed  of  a  very  keen 
sense  of  the  humorous.  He  was  an  incessant  reader  and  in  his  read- 


266  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

ing  kept  pace  with  the  progress  of  the  busy,  active  age  in  which  we 
live. 

Although  nearly  eighty  five  years  old  at  the  time  of  his  death,  he  never 
had  thought  himself  "  too  old  to  learn,"  and  the  writer  has  often  been 
struck  by  observations  of  his  indicating  his  readiness  to  receive  and  ac 
knowledge  newly  discovered  truths  from  whatever  source  they  might 
be  made  known. 

A  firm  maintainer  of  the  old  fashioned  High  Church  principles  in 
which  he  had  been  educated,  he  was  too  large-hearted  as  well  as  too 
wide-minded  to  be  capable  of  bigotry  or  exclusiveness  ;  of  cant, 
whether  religious  or  political  he  was  a  hearty  hater,  if  any  one  so  kind 
and  gentle  could  experience  such  an  emotion. 

Concerning  his  deep  unaffected,  simple,  childlike  piety,  we  will  not 
undertake  to  speak.  But  such  a  man  has  little  need  of  newspaper 
eulogy.  His  Christian  life  and  peaceful  end  are  his  best  testimonials. 

We  have  but  a  few  more  words  to  say.  He  came  to  Rest-Hamp 
ton  a  stranger,  He  died  among  affectionate  friends  who  will  ever 
cherish  his  memory." — 

But  he  had  already  gathered  facts  which  suggested 
a  lovely  life.  The  man,  then,  had  really  lived  in 
Rest-Hampton,  and  to  some  purpose,it  seemed. 

He  began  to  make  inquires  about  "  this  John  Wal 
lace  >:  among  the  villagers,  and  learned,  what  other 
idlers  have  learned  since  of  the  simple  old  town,  the 
plain  story  of  a  man  who  lived  peaceably  in  the  place 
and  conferred  the  benefits  of  great  wealth  upon  its 
inhabitants.  His  name  is  a  well  beloved  one  in  the 
hamlet,  and  those  who  speak  of  him  do  it  with  re 
verence  and  honor. 

"  A  good  man,"  they  say,  "  and  a  gentleman  ; 
but  strange,  strange  ;  "  with  significant  head  shak 
ings. 

"  What  was   strange  ? "  asked  the   Poet  curiously. 

And  then  he  would  receive  in  a  mysterious  under 
tone,  with  perchance  a  solemn  forefinger  tapped  upon 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  267 

the  forehead,  or  other   rustic  pantomime,  some  such 
vague  response  : 

"  Well  now,  stranger,  that's  just  what  nobody 
knows,"  or,  "  Well,  you  see,  he  lived  here  for  thirty 
years,  and  nobody  ever  saw  or  heard  of  any  kin,"  or, 
"  Indeed,  sir,  but  that  is  the  mystery." 

"  But  what  did  John  Wallace  do  that  was  odd  ? " 
persists  the  inquisitor,  aware  of  some  injustice  in  such 
vagaries. 

"Nothing;  leastways  except  to  build  a  church; 
and  to  give  all  of  his  money  to  the  poor." 

Then  the  villager  brightens  up  and  a  happy  inspira 
tion  strikes  him  : 

"  P'raps  you  never  see  the  new  window  we  put  up  to 
him  in  his  church  yonder,  no  ? — Then  come  along 

with  me Now,  jest  look  at  that !     Its  a 

beautiful  window,  and  cost  a  heap  of  money ;  least 
ways  for  the  folks  here  to  pay." 

The  memorial  window,  like  the  tomb-stone,  how 
ever,  bore  no  hieroglyphics  out  of  which  could  be 
deciphered  the  old,  old  truth  of  the  man's  finished 
story. 

At  last,  rummaging  again  over  the  musty,  eight- 
years-old  newspapers,  he  came  upon  one  more  clew 
to  the  buried  life. 

THE  MYSTERY  (?)  OF  THIRTY  YEARS,  EXPLAINED. 

Why  talk  of  mystery,  and  seek  to  throw 
Around  the  grave  of  that  old  man 
A  cloud  of  wonder,  and  of  blind  surmise  ? 
Of  mystery  forsooth,  in  him  who  knew 

*  For  the  use  of  these  verses,  and  the  preceding  fragment  of  obituary,  I  have  kind 
farmission  of  the  ivriter. 


268  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

No  artfulness,  or  cunning  craft  of  men, — 
Whose  heart  was  open  as  the  day  itself, 
And  whose  pure  life  (as  pure  as  man's  could  be,; 
Forbade  suspicion,  or  a  thought  of  wrong 

*#*******# 

To  us  he  brought  a  simple,  loving  heart, 

A  mind  stored  richly  with  scholastic  love, 

An  open  hand  to  all  the  lowly  poor — 

He  spake  but  little  of  the  distant  land, 

Of  home  and  friends,  few  were  the  words  he  said, 

Because  he  chose  to  live  from  all  apart 

(//  is  not  true  that  never  from  his  lips 

The  names  of  loved  ones  were  allowed  to  fall, 

for  he  who  writes  hath  sometimes  heard  the  name 

Of  Father,  Mother,  Sister,  and  of  all,) 

T'was  only  that  he  did  not  deem  it  wise 

To  publish  all  his  history  abroad ; 

And  tell  to  all  who  e'er  might  seek  to  know, 

Affairs  that  only  to  himself  belonged. 

No  further  mystery  than  that  was  there ; 

No  other  than  to  every  heart  belongs; 

No  other  Mystery  about  his  life 

Than  unto  many,  who  shall  read,  doth  cling. 
His  life 

To  God,  and  acts  of  Charity  was  given, 

(Yet  not  in  penance  for  some  former  deed) 

But  simply  and  alone  because  his  heart 

Was  full  of  Sympathy  and  Christlike  love 

*******  * 

Then  speak  no  more  of  Mystery  to  them 

Who  knew  and  loved  him  for  those  thirty  years. 
*******  ** 

So  Lived !  so  Died  he  !  with  a  heart  all  free 

From  sordid  baseness  or  corroding  sin, 

The  only  Mystery  about  him  thrown, 

The  Mystery  of  Godliness  alone. 

New  York,  Feb.  I7th  1871.  A.  H. 

"  That  was    evidently  written  by  some  one    who 
knew  the  man  well,  and  who  nevertheless  indignantly 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  269 

repudiated  the  idea  of  a  vulgar  mystery,"  mused  the 
Poet. 

And  he  went  back  to  the  graveyard  to  look  again 
at  the  tombstone,  and  to  question  the  possibility 
of  getting  light  upon  the  subject.  Had  he  been  a 
lawyer,  dear  reader,  he  would  doubtless  have  devised 
a  direct  method  of  attaining  a  surer  result.  But  as 
we  have  said,  he  was  only  an  artistic  soul  ;  and 
he  was  dazzled  with  the  possibilities  of  the  case. 
He  liked  this  story  of  John  Wallace,  which  seemed  to 
have  no  beginning,  only  a  faultless  ending.  He 
thought  he  perceived  through  its  transparent  form,  a 
moving  source,  such  as  is  the  essence  of  light  in  the 
diamond  ;  and  he  wondered  if  this  clear  gem  of  human 
kind  had  not  known  a  dark  imprisonment  of  trial  in 
some  remote,  deep  place.  How  else  could  it  have 
caught  a  sparkle  which  was  pure  and  serene,  and  yet 
was  fashioned  of  the  dull  carbon  of  experience. 

For  this  much  the  young  man  had  learned  of  the 
ways  of  mankind  ;  that  there  is  nothing  which  savors 
of  expiation,  nothing  which  comes  to  be  a  self-purifi 
cation,  which  has  not  behind  it  the  thing  for  which  it 
atones. 

He  wandered  about  here  and  there  ;  he  asked  much 
and  learned  little,  always  returning  to  the  graveyard, 
as  if,  by  any  means  the  silent  marble  could  testify  of 
the  diamond  which  is  akin  to  it. 

All  that  he  gathered  was  this  :  that  John  Wallace 
who  had  lived  and  died  in  the  little  sea-side  town,  had 
had  a  previous  history — a  mystery,  most  likely.  Think 
ing  further,  he  added  this  on  his  own  part  :  "  and  some 
woman  must  have  been  in  if." 


270  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

It  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  add  to  a  detective  procli 
vity  a  preconceived  belief.  Searching  about  for  this 
inevitable  woman — and  missing  her — the  Poet  came, 
naturally  enough,  upon  the  widow  Hatherton. 

Is  it  a  blunder  to  fall  upon  sweet  Annie  Castle- 
wood,  old,  faded,  wrinkled,  perhaps  (since  she  was  now 
past  fifty-five  years  of  age),  and  force  her  to  give  up 
the  tender  and  secret  sentiments  of  her  dreamy  youth  ? 

It  is  the  sad  blunder  from  which  we  shall  all  suffer, 
one  day,  unless  we  stumble  first,  without  the  premo 
nition  of  old  age,  upon  that  other  blunder — death. 

Let  those  at  least,  who  are  women,  protest  that  they 
love  the  fading  widow's  whitening  hair  more  than  the 
flickering  sunshine  of  the  girlish  head.  For  so  they 
would  like  the  world  to  do  unto  them. 

Still,  I  hear  the  world  say  that  it  will  not  be  enter 
tained,  life-fashion,  with  the  spectre  of  a  woman  who 
has  outlived  her  romance.  Why  should  it,  when 
there  are  fresh  hearts  and  unwritten  stories  perpetually 
crowding  to  the  front,  and  trampling  into  oblivion  the 
finished  destinies  and  silvered  locks  of  the  last  gener 
ation. 

It  is  true  that  the  widow  Hatherton  was  long  past 
fifty-five,  and  had  outlived  her  dreams — or  at  least  the 
possibility  of  their  realization.  But  if  Annie  Castle- 
wood  at  sixteen  was  pretty  and  winning,  Annie 
Hatherton  at  fifty-six  was  majestic. 

She  had  the  rich  color  in  her  cheeks  which  Rest- 
Hampton  salt  air  preserves  for  its  matrons  ;  and  the 
lustre  of  her  lovely  eyes  was  in  no  way  dimmed  by 
tears,  but  seemed  rather  to  be  heightened  by  the  con 
trasted  luxuriance  of  her  silver  hair. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  371 

"  Nancy  Hatherton's  tJiat  handsome,"  ejaculated 
the  younger  women  about  her,  somewhat  enviously  ; 
"  It's  a  wonder  her  looks  never  fetched  her  another 
husband — together  with  John  Wallace's  money  ;  " 
which  the  village  persisted  in  believing  he  had  sown 
broad-cast  over  the  goodly  acres  of  the  Homestead. 

Perhaps  Deacon  Potts,  still  a  morose  and  uncom 
promising  bachelor,  might  have  enlightened  them 
somewhat  upon  the  handsome  widow's  opportunities. 

She  had  continued  to  spend  her  summers  peace 
fully  with  her  son  at  the  old  farmhouse,  their  winters 
having  been  passed  for  some  years  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  his  university. 

But  Wallace  Hatherton  had  a  charge  now,  and  the 
long  pleasant  summers  were  cut  down  to  a  month  or 
six  weeks  during  each  year.  It  was  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  these  uneventful  seasons  that  the  Poet  came 
upon  them  unawares. 


PART  II. 

Containing'  the  Observations  and  the  Reservations  of 
the  Widow  Hatlicrton. 

"THERE  is  nothing  to  do  but  to  hunt  up  this  Mrs 
Hatherton,"  the  young  man  had  concluded  to  him 
self,  with  a  magnificent  indifference  to  the  person  and 
qualities  of  the  lady.  This  youthful  scorn  for  the  in 
dividual  was  rather  surprised  from  its  poise  when,  in 
answer  to  his  card  whereon  he  wrote  confidently 
"Leslie  Bracebridge,"  there  came  into  the  room  a  tall 
and  stately  woman,  whose  white  hair  above  her  bril 
liant  eyes  and  fresh  cheeks,  gave  him  a  startling  sen 
sation  of  contrast  and  possible  force. 

He  had  sought  her  out  with  his  anticipation  in  full 
swing,  as  a  self-appointed  spectator  of  a  long  finished 
drama,  which  she  was  to  rehearse  for  his  sole  benefit. 
It  experienced  something  of  a  back-set,  when  in  reply 
to  his  eager  and  confused  demands  upon  her  knowl 
edge  of  the  person  whose  identity  he  sought,  the 
widow  answered  coldly. 

"  I  scarcely  comprehend  tvJiat  you  wish  to  ask  me, 
Mr.  Bracebridge."  (Annie  still  accentuated  sometimes.) 

"  I  want,"  he  cried  excitedly,  "  to  find  out  this 
mystery,  this  romance,  which  has  been  buried  here." 


THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE.  273 

"  I  think  you  will  scarcely  find  any  materials  out  of 
which  to  weave  a  romance,"  she  said,  gravely.  "  Mr 
Wallace's  life  with  us  had  always  been  among  common 
places,  and  I  see  no  reason  to  suppose  that  there  is 
anything  enigmatical  in  his  having  lived  here." 

Mr.  Bracebridge  stared.  In  rushing  headlong  to 
wards  what  had  taken  hold  upon  his  fancy,  it  had  not 
occurred  to  him  that  he  was  to  come  plumb  against  a 
wall  of  unresponsiveness,  just  where  he  had  reason 
to  look  for  the  gate  of  inspiration. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  it  never  occurred  to  you 
to  suspect  the  man  of  masquerading  ?  " 

"  I  never  for  a  moment  suspected  Mr.  Wallace  of 
doing, — or  of  having  done — anything  that  he  could 
not  explain,  if  he  had  cared  to." 

The  widow's  handsome  face  held  a  certain  defiance 
that  baffled  the  young  man,  while  it  piqued  his  further 
interest. 

"  There  has  been  a  wheel  within  a  wheel  here,"  he 
mused  somewhat  sententiously  :  "  doubtless  this  Mr. 
Wallace  was  not  altogether  guiltless  of  a  love-affair, 
even  in  his  mysterious  retirement." 

"  Can  you  describe  the  gentleman  to  me,  Mrs. 
Hatherton  ? " 

She  paused.  The  man  she  had  known  and  loved 
so  well  stood  before  her  as  in  the  flesh ;  but  how  was 
she  to  describe  those  lineaments  ? 

Presently  she  said  : 

"  I  fancy  no  one  has  ever  yet  seen  a  portrait  through 
the  eyes  and  lips  of  another,  Mr.  Bracebridge.  If  I 
tell  you  that  Mr.  Wallace  was  tall  and  muscular  ;  that 
he  was  pale  and  classic  ;  that  he  was  grave  and 


274  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

majestic  ;  would  it  convey  to  you  any  notion  of  an  in 
dividual  ? " 

She  smiled.  The  Poet  thought  he  had  never  seen 
so  lovely  a  smile,  and  began  to  wonder  if — even  in 
this  out-of-the-way  corner  of  earth — there  might  not 
be  more  than  one  individual  worth  studying.  More 
over,  where  had  she  picked  up  such  English  ?  Surely 
not  upon  Eastern  Long  Island. 

"  Can  you  think  of  nothing  a — a  little  more  dis 
tinctive,  in  manner  or  appearance  ? "  he  asked,  smiling 
back. 

"  There  was,"  said  Annie  Hatherton  slowly,  "  a  pe 
culiar  luminousness  in  his  look.  I  have  never  seen  a 
face  that  could  at  times  so  radiate  the  spirit.  Also, 
he  was  a  man  who  possessed  great  personal  magnetism. 
Wherever  he  went,  he  was  master,  in  a  quiet  and 
unobtrusive  way  of  his  own." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Hatherton.  The  personality  of 
your  friend  begins  to  dawn  upon  me.  You  have 
given  me  a  substance  to  grasp.  But  where,"  he  added, 
puzzled,  "  did  a  man  who  was  a  Scotchman  born  and 
bred,  get  a  pale  complexion  and  classic  features  ?  " 

"  I  think  we  never  were  impressed  with  the  fact  of 
his  being  Scotch — until  the  last.  He  had  probably 
spent  most  of  his  previous  life  in  London,  since  his 
speech  and  ways  were  English." 

"  Did  he  profess  to  be  an  Englishman?"  asked  the 
other,  eagerly. 

"  He  made  no  professions  of  any  sort,"  answered  the 
widow,  coloring. 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Leslie  Bracebridge  after  a 
pause,  speaking  meditatively,  "  his  nationality  asserted 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  275 

itself  in  the  stolid  strength  of  his  resolution,  and  in 
an  astounding  ability  to  keep  his  own  counsel.  No 
body  but  a  Scotchman  could  have  persisted  in  so  de 
termined  a  disguise." 

"  May  I  ask  what  reason  you  have  for  adopting  the 
supposition  of  a  disguise  ?  " 

"  Your  towns-people  have  told  me  many  things  which 
point  both  to  exile  and  to  disguise." 

"  My  towns-people  talk  a  great  deal,  for  want  of 
better  occupation,"  Annie  said,  scornfully.  "  Mr. 
Wallace  did  not  choose  to  discuss  his  family  history 
with  them — why  should  he  ? — and  they  retaliate  in 
slander."' 

"  No,"  cried  the  young  man  earnestly,  not  wishing 
to  quarrel  with  his  only  chance  of  enlightenment ; 
"  I  have  heard  only  good  of  Mr.  Wallace.  It  is  on 
this  account  that  my  interest  is  enlisted.  Pray,  Mrs. 
Hatherton,  do  not  think  I  would  unravel  the  enigma 
to  find  out  a  crime.  Mysteries  are  not  necessarily 
evil." 

Annie  looked  searchingly  into  his  face : 

"  I  do  not  know  you,  Mr.  Bracebridge,  but  I  take 
it  for  granted  you  will  agree  with  me  that  if  a  man  , 
who  is  pure  and  good  and  true,  has  behind  him  years 
of  which  he  never  speaks,  there  is  some  reason  which 
every  gentleman  should  respect  why  they  should  not 
be  raked  over,  and  discussed  and  published.  This 
man  lived  and  died  without  revealing  any  extraordi 
nary  thing  which  may  have  been  in  his  experience.  I 
think  it  was  his  motive  so  to  live  and  die.  I,  for  one, 
shall  never  lift  the  veil  to  pry  into  a  reserve  which 
went  unbroken  to  the  grave." 


276  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

The  Poet  was  a  sensitive  creature  enough,  and  he 
winced  under  the  mild  rebuke  of  this  woman,  who  by 
right  of  her  seniority,  could  thus  address  him.  He 
sat  twirling  in  his  hand  a  small  gold  pencil  which  he 
had  ingenuously  taken  from  his  pocket  with  the  in 
tention  of  making  notes  of  the  conversation. 

"  Pshaw  ! "  he  cried  to  himself,  rallying  with  an 
effort,  "  I  did  not  come  to  this  out-of-the-way  place, 
and  stumble  upon  an  interesting  secret,  to  be  baffled 
by  the  scruples  of  a  fastidious  old  woman  who  knows 
nothing  but  proprieties." 

Then  he  returned  to  his  former  tone  of  humble 
politeness,  rather  ashamed  of  his  secret  anger : 

"  Perhaps  you  would  not  mind  giving  me  a  few 
corrected  statements  about  this  Mr.  Wallace." 

"  What  are  the  statements  you  wish  me  to  cor 
rect?" 

"  At  least  the  woman  is  no  fool,"  meditated  Mr. 
Bracebridge  ;  and  spoke  cautiously  : 

"  I  have  gathered— perhaps  unjustly — from  what  I 
have  heard,  that  John  Wallace  was  supposed  by  many 
to  be  a  semi-lunatic — or  a  monomaniac." 

"  A  sounder  mind,  a  clearer  judgment,  a  better 
balanced  character  never  was  !  "  cried  the  widow  indig 
nantly.  "  He  was  absolutely  without  eccentricity. 
They  are  poor  fools  who  told  you  that !  Having  no 
better  mystery  to  feed  upon,  they  have  invented  a 
groundless  lie." 

"  Was  there  not  some  supposition  that  he  came 
over  to  America  in  company  with  a  gentleman  who 
was  connected  with  lunatic  asylums  ?  " 

"  I  never  heard  any  such  supposition,  Mr.  Brace- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  277 

bridge,"  Annie  Hatherton's  eyes  were  still  flashing. 
Who  was  this  young  upstart,  that  he  should  come 
and  lay  before  her — who  was  John  Wallace's  friend — 
all  sorts  of  silly  stories  in  reference  to  a  man  whose 
only  peculiarity  had  been  that  he  loved  his  fellow 
man,  and  that  he  dealt  justly  with  all  ? 

"  Well,"  said  the  visitor,  apologetically,  reading  some 
thing  of  her  thoughts,''  I  see  that  I  have  allowed  my  im 
agination  to  be  ridiculously  worked  upon.  I  wish,"  he 
added  appealingly,  after  a  pause,  "  that  I  could  right 
myself  and  my  motive  in  your  eyes,  and  that  you 
would  allow  me  to  ask  you  a  few  questions  which  do 
not  presuppose  any  information  on  my  part.'' 

The  widow  relented  and  let  one  of  her  own  smiles — 
Annie  Castlewood's  smiles — break  over  her  face 
After  all,  why  should  she  blame  this  young  man  who 
had  only  believed  what  he  was  told  ? 

"If  you  are  unprejudiced,  and  really  interested  in 
Mr.  Wallace,  as  I  knew  him,  I  shall  be  glad  to  answer 
you." 

"  May  I  propound  questions  like  a  Yankee  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  !  I  am  used  to  that.     It  is  the  way,  here." 

"Well  then,"  brightening  up,  "the  valet — the  per 
son  who  came  over  with  Mr.  Wallace — has  nothing 
been  heard  of  him  since  his  master's  death  ? " 

"  I  myself  wrote  to  Andrews — to  an  address  in 
Colorado  which  Mr.  Wallace  had  used,  thinking  per 
haps  there  were  those  with  whom  he  might  commun 
icate.  There  never  was  any  reply." 

"  And  yet,"  suggested  the  Poet,  "  he  is  the  only  per 
son  from  whom  one  might  get  absolute  certainties." 

"  I  fancy  he  has  left  the  place  in  Colorado  where 


2-j&  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

we  supposed  him  to  be.  There  is  much  drifting  about 
in  the  far  west." 

Leslie  Bracebridge  glanced  surreptitiously  at  a  list 
of  notes  and  queries  he  had  sketched  out  for  use 
upon  this  occasion.  He  wished  to  forget  nothing  in 
this — his  opportunity.  These  notes  and  suggestions 
were  not  in  good  legal  form,  but  jotted  down  piece 
meal,  as  he  would  have  noted  the  wandering  ideas  for 
a  yet  unthought-out  poem  ;  or — had  he  been  a  painter 
— as  he  might  have  made  the  color-notes  for  a  picture 
not  yet  matured  in  composition.  It  suggested  simply 
that  the  material  for  an  artistic  study  had  fallen  into 
his  hands,  and  he  meant  to  secure  what  outlines  he 
could. 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  commenced  again  very  mod 
estly,  "  that  his  name  was  in  reality  John  Wallace  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  shall  never  think  otherwise.  You  ask 
me  singular  questions,  Mr.  Bracebridge.  They  are 
somewhat  offensive,  since  they  savor  of  accusations." 

The  thought  of  an  assumed  name,  a  false  position, 
was  like  a  living  lie  to  the  half-Puritan,  half-Quaker 
and  wholly  conscientious  and  upright  soul  of  Mrs. 
Hatherton.  She  revolted  from  the  thought  in  con 
nexion  with  a  being  at  once  so  high-toned  and  so 
simple-minded  as  the  hero  of  her  girlhood,  the  friend, 
of  her  womanhood. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  young  man  hastily, 
"  I  meant  no  accusation.  I  only  repeat  the  things 
I  have  heard.  Was  there  no  mark  upon  Mr.  Wal 
lace's  clothing,  or  in  his  books  ?  " 

"There  was  only  his  name  upon  his  clothing ; ''  the 
widow  looked  defiantly  at  her  interlocutor  : 


THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  V/ALLA  CE.  079 

"  His  books  had  no  mark  upon  them ;  you  can  see 
for  yourself  if  you  wish  ;  will  you  come  with  me  into 
the  study  he  occupied?  " 

Mr.  Bracebridge  was  delighted.  He  was  now  ap 
proaching  his  facts — his  outlines. 

"  What  I  want  is  Facts,  not  sentiments,"  he  mused. 
"  I  can  supply  the  color  and  the  harmony  for  myself.' 

When  they  were  seated  in  the  old  room,  where  to 
Annie's  sensitive  mind  the  spirit  of  John  Wallace 
still  brooded,  the  young  man  took  a  rapid  survey  of  the 
quiet  but  elegant  appointments,  the  well-filled  book 
cases,  until  a  portfolio  caught  his  quick  eye,  and  he 
asked  leave  to  glance  at  its  contents. 

The  widow  hesitated  : 

"  I  doubt  if  he  would  have  wished  them  disturbed, 
since  he  showed  them  to  no  one  in  his  lifetime.  I 
have  kept  them  all  these  years,  untouched  ;  for  as  he 
destroyed  his  other  papers,  doubtless  he  intended 
also  to  destroy  these." 

"  But  if  I  could  only  have  one,  Mrs.  Hatherton  !  as 
a  loan — a  souvenir  !  I  have  so  fallen  in  love  with  this 
man,  that  I  should  like  to  posess  something  which  he 
had  done." 

He  looked  so  eager,  so  pleading,  that  Annie  re 
luctantly  drew  from  the  portfolio  a  sheet  of  thin  yel 
low  paper,  on  which  was  transcribed  in  a  fine,  literary 
hand,  the  translation  of  a  Latin  hymn ; — Francis 
Xavier's. 

It  seemed  to  the  widow  that  the  shadow  of  John 
Wallace,  which  had  followed  her  nearly  her  whole  life, 
stretched  out  a  misty  hand  as  she  gave  up  the  paper. 

"  A  thousand  thanks,  madam,  you  are  very  good. 


280  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

But  what  is  this  cypher  ?  "  The  Poet's  eyes  sparkled. 

"  I  presume  that  the  letter  Z  is  the  signature  it 
pleased  Mr.  Wallace  to  use  in  writing.'' 

Leslie  Bracebridge  dared  no  further  upon  that 
ground.  He  felt  it  quake  beneath  him. 

"  And  may  I  ask — pardon  me,  it  often  has  to  be 
be  done  in  case  of  sudden  death — were  there  no 
letters  which  came  afterwards  ? — which  required  to  be 
opened  ? — which  demanded  attention  ?  " 

The  widow  looked  at  him  coldly. 

"  Mr.  Wallace's  death  was  not  sudden.  He  was 
fully  prepared  for  it,  as  doubtless  were  his  friends. 
There  was  nothing  zv/iich  came  after  his  death. 

The  Poet  sat  and  thought.     Presently  he  looked  up. 

"  Have  you  never  written — has  no  one  ever  written 
— to  his  friends  ?  Of  course  you  knew  their  names 
and  addresses  from  the  letters  he  sent." 

"  Mr.  Wallace  sent  all  of  his  letters  to  one  person 
— his  banker,  or  solicitor,  I  do  not  know  which, — in 
London." 

Bracebridge  fell  back,  it  being  upon  his  lips  to  ex 
claim, — 

"And  you  do  not  call  that  a  mystery  !  "  But  he 
read  a  certain  fine  warning  in  the  widow's  eye,  and 
held  his  tongue. 

"  I  believe  it  is  the  custom,"  she  said  calmly,  "  for 
Americans  travelling  in  Europe  to  have  their 
letters  forwarded  through  a  banker.  Undoubtedly 
Mr.  Wallace  supposed  that  strangers  here  do  the 
same." 

"  Yes — of  course,"  murmured  the  other,  abashed  by 
the  ready  wit  of  the  reply,  "  only  travellers  do  not — 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  28l 

of  course  you  perceive  the  difference — address  the  en 
velopes  to  their  banker,  merely  in  his  care." 

"  That  is  immaterial.  There  are  many  ways  of  con 
ducting  business." 

The  widow  spoke  grandly.  Bracebridge  hurried  on 
to  the  next  point,  fearful  of  another  blunder.  This 
fiery  woman  affected  him  somewhat  as  the  threaten- 
ings  of  an  earthquake  in  his  vicinity.  He  wished  to 
accomplish  his  purpose  and  get  away. 

"Can  you  recall  the  name  of  that  gentleman, 
Mrs.  Hatherton  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  Mr.  Roderic  Clarkson,  Lothbury, 
London,  E.C." 

It  was  modestly  noted  with  the  gold  pencil,  which 
was  then  consigned  to  the  pocket  of  Mr.  Arthur 
Bracebridge,  who  remarked  that,  as  he  was  not  a  re 
porter,  he  need  not  take  notes. 

"  Did  it  never  occur  to  you  to  write  to  this  gentle 
man  and  inform  him  of  Mr.  Wallace's  death  ? " 

"  I  did  so,"  the  widow  replied,  "  and  received  a 
courteous  reply.  His  client  had  warned  him  that  his 
days  were  numbered,  and  that  he  had  left  ample  pro 
vision  for  his  burial.  Mr.  Clarkson  did  not  invite  my 
confidence,  I  assure  you," 

Here  Mrs.  Hatherton  rose  and  crossing  the  room 
returned  with  a  volume  in  her  hand  which  she  handed 
to  her  visitor,  having  first  found  and  hastily  turned 
a  page. 

"  I  take  the  liberty,  Mr.  Bracebridge,  of  giving  you 
this  book,  which  belonged  to  Mr.  Wallace,  and  of 
which  he  was  very  fond  the  last  year  of  his  life.  Per 
haps  you  will  be  able  to  take  some  hints  from  it— es- 


282  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

pecially  from  the  paragraph  I  have  marked — that  will 
suggest  to  you  the  fallibility  of  human  judgment,  the 
unworthiness  of  unjust  suspicion." 

It  was  The  Ring  and  tJic  Book.  The  Poet's  eyes  fell 
upon  the  page,  and  as  he  read,  the  color  mounted  high 
into  his  cheeks  : 

"  So  are  we  made,  such  difference  in  minds, 
Such  difference  too  in  eyes  that  see  the  minds  1 
That  man,  you  misinterpret  and  misprize — 
The  glory  of  his  nature,  I  had  thought, 
Shot  itself  out  in  white  light,  blazed  the  truth 
Through  every  atom.     ****** 
Yes,  my  last  breath  shall  wholly  spend  itself 
In  one  attempt  more  to  dispose  the  stain, 
The  mist  from  other  breath  foul  mouths  have  made 
About  a  lustrous  and  pellucid  soul ; 
So  that,  when  I  am  gone,  but  sorrow  stays, 
And  people  need  assurance  in  their  doubt, 
If  God  have  yet  a  servant,  man  a  friend, 
The  weak  a  savior  and  the  vile  a  foe, 
Let  him  be  present  by  the  name  invoked" 

"  You  will  accept  a  warning — or  call  it  a  rebuke  if 
you  choose — from  an  old  woman,  Mr.  Bracebridge  ? " 

Annie  smiled  gravely,  and  the  young  man  seized 
her  hand. 

"  I  thank  you,  madam,"  he  said  :  "  you  have  opened 
my  eyes  to  the  truth  of  this  man's  character.  I  shall 
look  now,  not  for  a  mystery,  but  a  heroism." 

And  still  these  two  were  destined  not  to  part  with 
out  one  more  misunderstanding — so  different  were 
their  outlooks. 

"  Did  Mr.  Wallace  never  speak  of  any  correspon 
dent — by  name  ? " 

There  was  a  pause.     The  figure  of  the  dying  man, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  283 

— so  weak  in  the  failing  flesh — so  strong  in  the 
triumphing  spirit, — rose  before  Annie's  eyes.  She 
saw  herself  kneeling  by  the  bedside,  and  burning 
those  unread  letters  which  had  come  too  late. 

"  If  there  are  any  more — and  I  am  not  here — you 
will  burn  them  like  that,  Annie  ? " 

And  she  had  promised,  sobbing. 

A  sob  rose  now,  and  checked  her  utterance.  In  a 
few  moments,  during  which  her  visitor  had  thought 
her  busy  searching  her  memory,  she  said  gently, — 

"  Never  by  name.  Once,  he  spoke  of  a  lady  corre 
spondent." 

"  If  one  could  find  her  !  "  half  articulated  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge.  He  had  not  acquired  much  courage  as  yet, 
since  he  had  found  the  widow  somewhat  difficult  to 
deal  with.  Moreover,  his  purpose  had  not  yet  ma 
tured.  It  gathered  as  he  went  on. 

"  I  wrote  a  letter,"  volunteered  Mrs.  Hatherton,  in 
terested  in  spite  of  herself,  "  after  Mr.  Wallace's 
death,  giving  the  details  of  his  sickness,  and  offering 
to  attend  to  the  removing  of  his — remains,  if  his 
friends  wished  it.  There  must  be  some  one,  I  thought, 
who  would  wish  it.  I  sent  the  letter  to  The  Lady 
Correspondent  of  John  Wallace ;  in  care  of  the  London 
solicitor." 

"  In  due  time  there  came  a  letter  in  response — a 
most  finished  and  refined  letter,  with  a  certain  literary 
flavor  about  it,  thanking  us  for  all  our  kindness,  of 
which  the  writer  said  Mr.  Wallace  had  spoken  much. 
She  thanked  me,  also,  for  the  details  I  had  given  her, 
which  she  said  were  most  comforting  to  many  people. 
As  for  his  body,  they  would  not  disturb  it.  Doubt- 


284  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

less  he  would  prefer  to  rest  in  the  seclusion  of  that 
spot,  and  that  good  name,  which  he  had  chosen  for 
himself." 

"  '  That  good  name  ! '  "  echoed  the  Poet.  "My  dear 
Mrs.  Hatherton  do  you  not  perceive  that  the  name 
was  not  his  own  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  perceive  it,"  she  replied  flushing  with 
the  suddenness  of  the  thought :  "  I  suppose  the  words 
to  refer  merely  to  the  lovely  reputation  he  had  won 
among  us,  of  which  I  wrote." 

The  Poet  thought  differently,  but  was  too  eager 
now  in  the  pursuit  of  a  possible  clew  to  dispute  the 
fact  ? 

"  And  what  was  the  signature  ?  "  he  demanded 
naturally  enough. 

"  It  was  signed,"  Annie  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  look 
ing  away  from  her  interrogator  in  some  embarrass 
ment,  "  '  The  Lady  Correspondent  of  John  Wallace'  " 

Leslie  Bracebridge  sat  staring  at  his  companion  in 
unmitigated  astonishment,  and  presently  her  fine  eyes 
turned  courageously  upon  his  own  : 

"  There  was  no  reason,"  remarked  she  distinctly, 
"  why  the  lady  should  not  sign  her  letter  precisely  as 
I  addressed  it.  I  did  not  ask  any  disclosure  in  return." 

Her  companion  did  not  seem  to  hear  her  defence 
of  the  dead  man's  position.  He  muttered,  half  to 
himself. 

"  Wonderful,  wonderful  !  Do  you  not  think  so, 
Mrs.  Hatherton  ? — that  this  man's  singular  reserve 
should  communicate  itself  to  all  with  whom  he  came 
in  contact.  The  valet — the  Solicitor — the  Lady 
Correspondent — ('  yourself,'  he  mentally  added  ;)  It 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  285 

seemed  like  a  scheme  of  silence,  a  many-sided  plot  to 
mystify  "         — he  stopped  suddenly  : 

"  I  believe  I  was  to  confine  myself  to  interrogations. 
Pardon  me  if  I  was  led  into  a  comment." 

"  I  think  we  had  better  deal  with  the  facts  only," 
Annie  said  calmly. 

"  Facts  ?  oh  yes  !  But  I  should  so  like  to  see  that 
letter — if  it  were  not  for  troubling  you,"  his  sentence 
trailed  off  apologetically. 

"  It  is  not  the  trouble]'  Annie  said,  with  her  old 
emphasis  ;  "  it  is  that  I  have  no  right  to  make  the 
letter  public." 

"  I  am  not  a  very  large  public,"  murmured  the  Poet, 
meaningly  ;  but  the  other  let  the  matter  quietly  rest, 
and  Bracebridge  had  to  glance  at  his  notes  for  a  new 
suggestion. 

"  Was  there  no  seal — no  crest  anywhere  ?  " 

The  widow  winced,  as  though  the  question  pierced 
her  self-command  with  a  sting  of  disclosure  : 

"  Yes  :  Mr.  Wallace  wore  a  ring  with  a  crest,  or 
cypher,  upon  it." 

"  May  I  see  that  ? — as  a  matter  of  interest,  you 
know." 

It  was  never  taken  from  his  finger,  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge." 

"  Oh  true  ! — of  course  !  but  was  there  no  duplicate  ?  " 

"  There  was  a  duplicate ;  but  I  think  that  neither 
of  them  was  the  family  crest.  It  was  a  sort  of  mitre 
and  cross  design — I  have  fancied  it  might  be  a  Bish 
op's  crest " 

Annie  stopt  abruptly.     Why  should  she  cast  her 
secret  and  sacred  imaginations  before  this  stranger. 


286  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

He  was  intent  on  the  crest.  "  You  say  there  was  a 
duplicate  of  the  cypher  on  the  ring;  " 

"  Yes,  answered  the  widow  in  a  still  voice  ;  for  it 
pained  her  to  touch  thus  openly  the  thing  which  had 
gone  from  her  life  :  "  It  was  cut  upon  the  ivory  cover 
of  a  little  prayer-book." 

"  And  you  have  that  ?— 

"  No,  I  have  not.  I  wished  to  keep  it ;  but  Mr. 
Bracebridge,  can  you  not  comprehend  that  I  felt  I  had 
no  claim  upon  anything  which  belonged  to  Mr.  Wal 
lace's  past — to  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  his  mys 
tery  ?  He  loved  that  little  book,  and  always  carried 
it  in  his  breast  pocket.  I  left  it  with  him." 

In  her  vivid  imagination,  the  woman  who  had  been 
his  friend  saw  him  as  he  had  lain  at  peace,  his  hands 
folded  restfully  over  the  little  book  that  might  have 
told  his  secret,  and  his  grand  face  looking  more  than 
kingly  in  its  statuesque  repose.  The  tears  she  had 
repressed  gathered  in  her  eyes  at  last. 

Bracebridge  bowed  his  head  in  silence.  He  could 
not  but  acknowledge  that  there  was  a  certain  gran 
deur  of  renunciation  in  this  woman's  having  put  away 
from  her  all  possibility  of  solving  a  question  which 
he  could  perceive  had  lain  somewhere  near  her 
heart. 

"  In  this  narrow  community,  and  among  these  nar 
row  people,"  he  mused  philosophically,  "  such  a  re- 
linquishment  could  only  have  been  reflected  from  the 
man's  own  life  of  abjuration." 

"  Then  you  have  nothing  at  all — as  a  souvenir  ?  " 

"  Nothing, — excepting  these  few  papers  and  books," 
with  a  wave  of  her  hand. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  287 

"  And  they  do  not  appear  to  refer  backward  in  the 
least." 

The  young  man  felt  his  energies  flag,  but  presently 
he  roused  them  to  ask  : 

"  Could  you  make  that  crest  ? — trace  it,  you  know, 
or  something  like  it." 

"  No,"  said  Annie  firmly  ;  "  I  do  not  recollect  it 
with  sufficient  distinctness.  It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a 
cypher,  rather  than  a  crest." 

Leslie  Bracebridge  sighed  restlessly.  "  This  wo 
man,"  he  thought,  "  is  trying  to  baffle  me."  And 
having  no  further  suggestions  upon  his  list,  and  no 
further  excuse  for  remaining,  he  arose  as  if  to  go. 
Suddenly  he  turned  and  asked  : 

"  Did  you  never,  Mrs.  Hatherton,  form  any  sur 
mise  as  to  Mr.  Wallace's  former  position  or  occupa 
tion  ?" 

It  was  a  direct  question,  and  Annie  answered  sim 
ply,  with  her  old  candor  of  speech  : 

"  I  have  not  been  without  curiosity,  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge.  Sometimes  I  find  myself  putting  together 
little  items  to  make  a  situation.  In  the  letter  which 
I  received  from  Edinburgh,  I  gathered  that  the  posi 
tion  which  Mr.  Wallace  had  held  was  a  high  one, 
judicial  or  clerical.  It  has  occured  to  me,  personally — " 
Annie  paused,  the  haunting  figure  in  the  white  robe 
rising  once  more  before  her — "  that  he  might  have 
been  a  clergyman — a  dignitary  of  some  sort,  in  the 
church  of  England." 

"  A  Scotchman  and  yet  a  churchman.  It  is  odd." 
The  Poet  hesitated  :  "  If  you  were  asked,  Mrs. 
Hatherton — you  who  surely  must  have  known  him  well 


288  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

in  his — thirty  was  it  not  ? — years  residence  with  your 
family, — what  would  you  say  were  his  leading  traits  ? 
his  chief  characteristics  ? " 

The  widow  thought  a  while  before  she  answered 
slowly  : 

"  I  should  say  that  the  thing  which  entered  most 
largely  into  his  composition  was  self-denial,  self-re 
nunciation.  For  the  rest," — her  eyes  filled  with  tears  : 
it  was  nearly  ten  years  since  she  had  seen  John  Wal 
lace  laid  away,  and  yet  she  sorrowed  silently  for  him 
whose  life  had  been  to  her  both  uplifting  and  satisfy 
ing  ;  "  For  the  rest,  he  was  a  cultivated,  refined,  be 
nevolent,  Christian  Gentleman  in  all  tJie  associations 
and  actions  of  Jiis  life.  We  always  ridiculed  the  occa 
sionally  suggested  idea  that  there  was  any  mystery  in 
his  previous  life.  If  you  are  going  to  follow  this 
matter,  I  entreat  you  not  to  make  use  of  my  name  or 
my  words  in  any  way.  I  could  not  rest  if  I  thought 
that  he  whom  I  revered  as  John  Wallace  were  about 
to  be  paraded  before  the  world  as  a  questionable 
person." 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  responded  the  other  warmly. 
"  Be  sure  that  your  wish  shall  be  respected,  even 
if  I  should  endeavor  to  follow  so  dubious  a  trail.  But 
have  you  not  just  betrayed  to  me  that  you  yourself 
question  the  identity  of  the  man  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you  I  have  never  had  the  ghost  of  a  reason  to 
suspect  his  identity,"  she  said  almost  angrily  :  and 
the  visitor,  bowing,  withdrew.  As  he  left  the  sha 
dow  of  the  vine-covered  stoop,  the  widow's  voice  de 
tained  him. 

"  Mr.  Bracebridge,"  she  said  coming  out  and  stand- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  289 

ing;  proudly  beside  him,  yet  with  a  certain  feminine 
yielding  in  her  face  and  gesture  : 

"  I  am  a  woman  and  therefore  contradictory.  Al 
though  I  do  not  wish  my  name  used  in  this  matter 
which  you  may  follow  out,  if — sometime,  you  should 
chance  to  pick  up  the  thread  of  Mr.  Wallace's  life,  I 
should  like  to  see  how  it  unravels."  .  ...  v"-f; 

The  twilight  of  Annie  Hatherton's  life  closed  again 
about  her,  to  be  no  more  disturbed  by  word  from  the 
living  or  voice  from  the  dead. 

How  much  of  tender  fiction  she  nursed  in  her 
heart  for  reality,  how  much  of  questioning  incredulity 
she  banished  from  it  as  a  whim,  who  shall  know  ? 
Only  those  who  have  likewise  journeyed  in  their  ex 
perience  after  the  never-to-be-explained  ignis-fatuus 
of  some  illusion,  some  haunting  soul-myth  that  is  not 
their  own.  It  was  John  Wallace's  shadow  she  had 
pursued. 

Poor  human  creatures !  The  half  of  our  lavish 
natures  we  waste  in  twining  about  an  object,  an 
ambition,  an  idol ;  the  other  half  we  spend  in  un 
winding  their  poor  clingings.  .  .  

"  My  life,"  she  mused,  standing  wistfully  that  same 
evening  in  the  melancholy  mist  which  crept  over 
John  Wallace's  grave,  "  is  like  a  broken  shaft,  without 
meaning  or  finish  ;  while  his  is  perfected  in  form, 
polished  in  outline,  complete  in  expression.  He  died 
having  achieved  his  silent  purpose  of  some  unknown 
vicarious  suffering,  not  spelled  upon  his  tomb.  I  live  : 
and  having  aimed  at  many  poor  ends,  have  achieved 
nothing." 

And  the  Poet,  as  he  strode  away  from  the  wistaria, 


2  9  o  THE  SNA  DOW  OF  JOHN  WA  LLA  CE. 

and  jessamine,  and  honeysuckle-ladened  doorway 
that  had  known  for  so  many  years  the  coming  and 
going  shadow  of  John  Wallace,  he,  too,  mused  this 
wise  : — 

"Force  and  gentleness;  justice  and  self-renuncia 
tion  ;  these  then  seem  to  have  been  the  chief  com 
ponents  of  the  creature  I  am  to  handle.  Rather 
lofty  traits,  and  delicate  to  manage, — Hum — hum  ! 
Let  me  see, — 

"'The  Ring  and  the  Book  /  '  It  must  have  been  a 
new  book  when  the  Great  Unknown  was  fond  of  it. 
A  metaphysical,  ruminating,  analytical  sort  of  man, 
no  doubt.  Well,  well!  I  shall  read  the  volume  for 
his  sake  as  well  as  for  Robert  Browning's,  bearing  in 
mind  what  that  widow  with  fine  eyes  had  the  courage 
to  say  to  me.  Then  I  shall  go  forth  and  find  the 
man  himself." 


BOOK    II. 


THE     SHADOW. 

"  Well  now  ;  there  s  nothing  in  nor  out  o1  the  world 
Good  except  truth  ;  yet  this,  the  something  else, 
What's  this  then,  which  proves  good  yet  seems  untrue  ? 
This  that  I  mixed  with  truth,  motions  of  mine 
That  quickened,  made  the  inertness  malleolable 
O'  the  gold  was  not  -mine, — whafs  your  name  for  this  ? 
A  re  means  to  the  end,  themselves  in  part  the  end  f 
Is  fiction  which  makes  fact  alive,  fact  too  ? 
The  somehow  may  be  this  how" 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A    LONDON    SOLICITOR. 

"  God  who  sent  me  to  judge  thee  meted  out 
So  much  of  judging  faculty,  no  more. 
Ask  Him  if  I  was  slack  i?i  use  thereof." 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

A  SELF-APPOINTED  task  has  often  all  the  glamour  of 
a  mission  about  it.  We  are  frequently  so  possessed 
with  the  intensity  of  our  own  imaginations,  that  to 
fulfil  them  becomes  a  sacred  duty.  Perhaps  there  is 
a  truth  in  this  fancy.  The  Fates  may  hold  us  respon 
sible  for  our  inspirations. 

Leslie  Bracebridge  had  a  few  hundred  dollars  and 
the  remainder  of  the  summer  at  his  disposal.  More 
over,  he  had  always  meant  to  hunt  up  his  Scotch  rela 
tives  and  introduce  himself  to  them. 

"  My  mother  was  a  Leslie,"  he  said.  "  She  used  to 
hear  from  cousins  in  the  south  of  Scotland.  Here  is 
an  opportunity  to  find  my  own  kin — and  to  stumble 
upon  John  Wallace's  romance." 

For  he  was  aware  that  the  thread  upon  which  he 
had  strung  his  odd  fancy  for  finding  the  story  of  an 
unknown  man  was  but  a  slender  one. 

He  made  a  few  hasty  arrangements,  and  in  a  weeks' 


294  THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE. 

time  found  himself  aboard  one  of  the  ships  of  an  inex 
pensive  line,  bound  for  London. 

"  I  shall  call  upon  Mr.  Roderic  Clarkson  first. 
After  that,  I  start  for  Edinburgh  with  very  likely  a 
handful  of  addresses.  I  may  make  my  fortune  in  two 
ways.  First  socially  ;  that  is  not  to  be  despised.  I  shall 
fall  among  John  Wallace's  relations,  and  be  entertained 
and  introduced  by  them  into  the  aristocracy.  Sec 
ondly,  I  shall  obtain  facts — why  not  ? — for  which  the 
American  public  will  pay  handsomely.  Our  peo 
ple  are  greedy  for  any  undiscovered  thing.  They  shall 
have  a  new  romance.  I  will  call  it  '  The  Lady  Cor 
respondent  of  John  Wallace.'  Why  !  "  he  cried  stamp 
ing  furiously  about  the  deck,  "  the  very  name  has  a 
thrill  about  it  !  A  publisher  would  pay  for  that  with 
out  reading  the  MS.  It  is  unique." 

Still,  the  young  man  was  not  distinctly  mercenary. 
His  determination  to  follow  up  the  story  he  had  hap 
pened  upon  may  very  justly  be  ascribed  to  one  of 
those  relentless  infatuations  which  seize  upon  the  ar 
tistic  temperament,  and,  taking  possession  of  it,  lead 
many  a  man  into  unaccountable  ways.  *  *  * 

Who  that  has  crossed  the  sea  under  the  pressure  of 
some  haste,  does  not  know  the  feverish  anxiety  with 
which  the  voyage  is  beset  ?  Especially  those  few  last 
days  on  shipboard  when  the  profound  risks  of  the  deep 
are  passed,  and  you  sail  along  the  desired  shore  with 
the  haven  still  ahead. 

All  this  was  over  for  Leslie  Bracebridge,  however, 
and  he  leaped  ashore  into  the  bustle  and  crowd  of  the 
Great  City,  with  a  bounding  sense  in  his  blood  of 
something  to  be  achieved  without  delay. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  295 

But  there  was  delay,  after  all.  There  were  lodgings 
to  secure,  and  the  "  square  meal  "  on  terra  firma  to 
partake  of,  by  which  time  it  was  towards  dusk.  The 
exclusive  looking  buildings  which  displayed  Mr.  Rod- 
eric  Clarkson's  name,  as  Solicitor  in  Chancery,  among 
other  equally  aristocratic  and  imposing  ones,  were 
closed.  Round  about  and  in  and  out,  among  the  bar 
rister's  offices  and  the  banks,  wandered  the  poet  in  a 
maze  of  curiosity  and  appreciative  enjoyment  ;  he  was 
feasting  in  anticipation  upon  the  charm  of  a  discovery. 

The  next  day,  he  was  on  the  spot  betimes,  eager  to 
grasp  his  pet  dilemma  by  the  horns.  The  offices  were 
not  yet  open  to  the  public  ;  and  small  boys,  assisted 
by  cuffs  and  commands  from  very  young  and  very 
pompous  clerks,  were  sweeping  out  and  generally  put 
ting  to  rights  for  the  day.  Our  poet  thought  he  had 
never  known  places  of  business  to  open  so  late,  and  to 
wear  such  a  distant  air  of  reserve.  It  was  very  unin 
viting  ;  and  depressingly  unlike  the  familiar  courtesy 
of  the  American  professional  man's  den.  His  ardor 
of  the  night  before  cooled  a  little,  and  he  began  to  ex 
perience  twinges  of  that  uncomfortable  quality  called 
nervousness  ;  and  to  wonder  if  he  were  not  about  to 
perpetrate  a  very  rash  thing. 

It  was  too  late  for  qualms  of  conscience,  however. 
He  had  already  presented  his  card  to  the  least  super 
cilious-looking  of  the  dozen  supercilious  clerks,  and 
informed  him  that  he  would  return  at  midday.  The 
clerk  stared  at  him,  politely  but  coldly  ;  which  gave 
him  an  impression  that  the  solicitor  was  something  of 
a  Personage,  and  was  accustomed  to  serving  other 
Personages  of  unquestionable  position.  That  he  felt 


296  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

himself  to  be  merely  an  atom  in  the  great  nameless 
mass  of  nobodies,  did  not  add  to  his  ebbing  courage. 
He  was  sure  the  clerks  knew  he  had  come  on  doubt 
ful  business,  and  were  despising  him  for  his  humility. 
At  last,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  face  the  inter 
view.  He  felt  himself  shrink  and  dwindle  incredibly 
as  he  was  ushered  through  a  suite  of  preliminary 
apartments,  after  an  interminable  waiting  time  spent 
in  a  gradually  filling  ante-room. 

He  heard  his  consciously  unknown  name  pro 
nounced  from  room  to  room  by  dignified  and  middle- 
aged  and  majestic  gentlemen,  each  of  whom  he  mo 
mentarily  fancied  to  be  the  great  solicitor  himself. 
To  his  sensitive  ear,  there  was  a  tone  of  scorn  in  the 
several  utterances  of  his  name,  as  who  should  say — 
"  What  does  this  young  man  want  f  Who  is  this  ob 
scure  individual  called  Bracebridge  ?  "  Then  he  came 
into  the  presence  of  an  elderly  man,  who  was  physi 
cally,  and  to  all  appearances  mentally  a  giant.  Now 
the  poet  was  modest  in  his  inches,  and  he  felt  him 
self  acutely  to  be  a  pigmy  by  the  side  of  this  the 
awful  Personage. 

The  Personage  was  by  rights  Sir  Roderic  Clarkson  ; 
but  he  kept  the  dignity  of  his  baronetcy  forsocial  life, 
preferring  for  his  professional  renown,  that  greater 
dignity  which  is  of  personal  power  and  ability.  He 
scrutinized  through  his  single-barreled  glass  the  tim 
orous  intruder,  as  a  sceptical  biologist  might  scruti 
nize,  through  his  miscroscope,  a  new  specimen  of  an 
imalcule.  Still  there  was  nothing  affronting  in  his 
manner.  Without  doubt,  Sir  Roderic  was  near 
sighted 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  297 

"  Good  morning-,  Mr.  Leslie  Bracebridge,"  he  said 
stiffly,  English  fashion. 

If  ever  that  young  gentleman  devoutly  wished  to 
back  out  from  an  inevitable  situation,  it  was  then 
and  there.  All  his  glib  speeches  forsook  him  and 
fled. 

"  I  am  from  America — from  the  States,"  he  began 
feebly.  He  felt  a  wild  desire  to  blurt  out  : 

"  I  am  supernaturally  commissioned  from  John 
Wallace's  ghost." 

Actually,  he  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say — a 
chaotic  state  which  wiser  minds  than  his  often  fall 
into,  in  an  emergency. 

Mr.  Roderic  Clarkson  moved  his  neatly  gaitered 
feet  with  a  slightly  ominous  suggestion  of  impatience. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Mr.  Bracebridge  ?  "  he 
asked  politely. 

"  I  have  come  to  you  "  (it  was  the  only  modification 
of  the  absurd  speech  which  the  poet  could  think  of) 
"  from  the  friends  of  John  Wallace." 

"  Yes  ?  "  The  monosyllable  was  distinctly  interroga 
tive.  Clearly  the  great  man's  composure  was  not 
stirred.  He  did  not  propose  to  help  his  victim  out. 

"  John  Wallace  means  nothing  to  him  !  Doubtless 
he  is  used  to  mysterious  correspondents,"  thought 
poor  Bracebridge,  wondering  what  on  earth  he  had 
planned  to  say  next.  He  thought  of  the  ease  with 
which  he  had  plied  the  widow  with  questions,  and 
smiled  bitterly  at  his  own  temerity. 

"  I  am  very  anxious — they  are  very  anxious — to 
learn  something  of  Mr.  Wallace's  past  life,"  he  said 
desperately.  He  could  read  in  the  solicitor's  coldly 


2g8  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

penetrating  eye,  that  he  had  anticipated  some  such 
indirect  and  poverty-stricken  announcement. 

"  I  believe  I  had  some  correspondence  with  the 
people  whom  you  refer  to.  Some  years  ago.  At  the 
time  of  Mr.  Wallace's  death.  That  was  sufficiently 
satisfactory,  I  presume." 

The  solicitor  spoke  in  distinct  periods  with  a 
majestic  sort  of  measure. 

"No — not  quite,"  stammered  the  young  man  blush 
ing  furiously  ;  "  There  are  those  who  were  bound  to 
Mr.  Wallace  by  ties  " — what  was  he  saying  in  his 
desperation  ? 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  Perhaps  I  do  not  comprehend.  What 
do  you  mean  by  ties  ? "  said  the  other  measurcdly. 

"  Ties  of  friendship — and  all  that  !  "  cried  the  poet, 
a  cold  sweat  breaking  out  upon  his  forehead  ;  "  there 
is  a  young  man  who  is  called  for  him — to  whom  he 
left  considerable  money  " 

"  No  doubt."  Sir  Roderic  spoke  stiffly  :  "  there 
may  be  a  whole  village  named  for  him.  But  what 
have  I  to  do  with  all  this  ?  The  young  man  received 
the  money,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  He  did ;  but  you  have,  sir,  information  which 
would  be  of  great  service  to  those  people — and  to  me." 

"  Excuse  me  :  who  are  you,  Mr.  Bracebridge  ?  The 
young  man  himself  possibly?" 

"  No,"  cried  Bracebridge,  wishing  devoutly  that  he 
was;  "  I  am  a  writer,  sir.  I  have  become  possessed 
of  this  idea:  to  follow  backward  through  what  clew  I 
may  find,  the  life  of  John  Wallace  to  its  source." 

He  was  becoming  more  tranquil  and  confident. 

"  Ah — yes.      A  reporter.     I  have  heard  of  such 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  299 

methods.  In  America.  And  you  wish  me  to  help  you. 
In  your  laudable  enterprise  ? "  with  an  ironical 
smile. 

"  I  should  be  greatly  indebted  to  you,  Mr.  Clarkson, 
for  a  few  addresses — merely  that." 

"  That,  Mr.  Bracebridge,  I  cannot  do.  It  is  need 
less  to  remind  you,  I  fancy,  that  the  affairs  of  my 
client,  are  not  mine  to  dispose  of." 

"  Then  you  are  bound  to  secrecy  ?  And  there  is  a 
mystery  ?  "  ejaculated  the  young  man,  unguardedly. 

"  I  did  not  say  so.  A  lawyer  never  discusses  his 
clients'  matters,  I  merely  declined  giving  you  the 
addresses  of  Mr.  Wallace's  relatives.  Is  there  any 
thing  more  you  wish  to  ask  ?  " 

The  Personage  moved  his  gaitered  feet  again  ;  young 
Bracebridge  started  forward  in  consternation. 

"  I  beg  you,  sir,  to  give  me  i  some  inkling — some 
hint  to  direct  me  ;  I  have  crossed  the  ocean  to  fol 
low  this  trail.  It  will  go  very  hard  with  me  if  I  have 

to  give  it  up.  I  am  pledged — as  it  were," he  did 

not  finish. 

The  solicitor  looked  sharply  at  him.  There  must 
have  been  some  charm  about  his  boyish  face,  which, 
having  won  upon  the  widow  Hatherton's  heart,  now 
appeared  to  touch  the  stone  which  lay  in  the  great 
man's  breast. 

"•  Perhaps  you  have  some  claim  of  relationship,"  he 
said  gently. 

"  No  I  have  not.  But  I've  got  this  thing  on  my 
mind  to  that  extent,  that  I  cannot  rest  day  or 
night,  until  I  see  through  it." 

"  May  I  ask  what  you  have  to  gain  ? " 


300  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  Literally  nothing,"  cried  the  Poet,  his  notion  of  a 
warm  reception  among  John  Wallace's  people  having 
vanished  into  space. 

"  I  have  taken  it  up  as  a  sort  of  mission — a  hobby, 
if  you  will.  It  could  do  no  harm,  and — and  I  am  wil 
ling  to  pay  for  my  information." 

Sir  Roderic  Clarkson  waved  his  hand,  with  a  ges 
ture  of  dismissal : 

"I  cannot  countenance  any  liberty.  With  my  clients, 
Even  after  their  decease.  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge.  But  it  is  impossible  to  assist  you.1' 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  a  bell.  This  air  of  finality 
gave  his  visitor  a  sudden  courage. 

"  Only  tell  me  this,  Mr.  Clarkson — and  I  will  not 
trouble  you  further.  Was  his  name  in  reality  John 
Wallace  ?  " 

"  It  was  not :  "     Sir  Roderic  rang  the  bell. 

"  Was  Edinburgh — or  London,  the  scene  of  his 
life,  up  to  his  leaving  for  America  ?  " 

"Both. — Thomson!  "(to  the  brass-buttoned  boy 
who  entered,)  "  I  am  ready  to  see  Sir  Harvey — " 

"  Just  give  me  this  grain  of  satisfaction,"  entreated 
the  baffled  Poet,  clasping  his  hat  fervently  to  his 
heart  ;  "  was  there  a  crime  of  any  sort  ?  was  he  ban 
ished  ? " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Bracebridge.  I  have  said 
I  could  not  help  you  in  the  matter." 

"  But  if  I  find  him  ! — if  I  identify  him  ! — you  will 
at  least  tell  me  ?  " 

The  young  man's  persistence  seemed  to  please  the 
older  nature  which  had  doubtless  known  its  eager 
nesses  also,  else  it  would  not  have  found  success : 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  301 

"  If  you  find  him — yes.  But  don't  come  to  me, 
with  all  sorts  of  people.  I  warn  you  that  I  am  not 
patient." 

"  Thank  you — and  good-day,"  murmured  Leslie 
Bracebridge,  humbly,  backing  towards  the  door  by 
which  brass  buttons  was  admitting  another  anxious 
visitor. 

"  I  couldn't  well  have  got  less  out  of  him,"  he  mut 
tered  :  "And  yet — it  is  something — that  promise!  For 
/  shall  find  the  man  who  called  himself  John  Wallace?' 
****** 

It  was  the  height  of  the  season  in  London  ;  but 
the  festivites  of  shop  and  theater,  of  street  and  park, 
could  not  detain  young  Bracebridge.  He  had  an  ob 
ject  before  him  ;  and  that  was  Edinburgh.  *  *  *  * 

A  quaint  old  city,  built  eccentrically  up  and  down 
an  abrupt  declivity  of  rocks.  Steep  and  narrow 
streets,  queer  shops;  a  crowd — a  jumble  of  roofs  ;  a 
great  mass  of  rock-like  castle  overhanging  all  :  that  is 
Edinburgh.  That  is  where  our  Poet  found  himself, 
blown  about,  without  thread  of  direction,  to  his  pur 
pose.  Drifting  about  without  a  sail  upon  this  un 
known  current  had  the  excitement  of  hazard,  how 
ever.  Suppose  his  intention  drove  on  to  wreck  !  At 
least  he  would  have  passed  a  summer  of  novelty. 

He  began  to  consider  the  feasibility  of  searching 
tKe  city  directories  and  birth  records,  until  he  re 
flected  that  he  had  no  clew,  no  name  to  look  for. 
Perhaps  if  he  presented  himself  to  the  American 

Consul Pshaw  !  Very  likely  that  individual  had 

never  heard  of  John  Wallace  ; — how  should  he  ?  Brace- 
bridge  smiled  cynically.  He  thought  of  the  Bishop 


302  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

of  Edinburgh,  remembering  that  the  man  he  sought 
for  was  a  churchman.  But  what  should  he  say  ?  The 
absurd  sentence  that  had  presented  itself  about  John 
Wallace's  ghost  occurred  to  him  again.  This  time 
Bracebridge  laughed  aloud ;  clearly,  he  must  look 
among  circumstances  for  some  extraordinary  event 
which  he  could  fit  upon  his  man.  It  was  the  motive 
he  must  seek,  not  the  man.  "  It  is  like  constructing 
an  antediluvian  creature  from  a  single  bone,"  he 
thought :  "  I  shall  not  hunt  for  my  bone  ;  I  must  hap 
pen  on  that." 

And  so  it  was  that,  wandering  about  the  intricacies 
of  the  rare  old  Capital,  he  came  upon  the  dark  and 
dreadful  shadow  of  the  Edinburgh  Prison. 

One  of  those  queer  sensations  called  presentiments 
swept  across  the  Poet's  brain,  and  he  found  himself 
haunting  the  prison  with  a  persistency  which  he  could 
not  account  for,  since  his  mind  was  not  set  upon  the 
fact  that  John  Wallace's  mystery  had  been  a  crime. 
And  still  the  place  fascinated  him.  He  wandered 
about  its  precincts,  using  every  opportunity  allowed  to 
visitors  to  enter  ;  and  questioning  every  one  with  whom 
he  came  in  contact. 

But  prison  officials  are  a  Surly  set ;  and  it  was  not 
until  he  heard  of  the  existence  of  an  old  minister  of 
the  Scottish  Kirk,  who  had  taken  charge  of  the  chapel 
services  in  jail  and  prison  for  thirty  years  previous  to 
the  last  decade,  that  he  got  any  insight  into  Peniten 
tiary  affairs. 

This  old  man  had  become  superannuated  and  was  re 
tired  from  office  and  pensioned ;  all  of  which  fed  his 
garrulity  to  an  incredible  degree.  Indeed  auld  Parson 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  303 

McCairn  lived  upon  his  prolonged  versions  and  remi, 
niscences  of  past  labors  and  experiences,  with  a 
tenacity  of  which  only  the  Scotch  composition  is  ca 
pable. 

What  pangs  of  penance  the  young  man  was  bring 
ing  upon  himself  in  his  voluntary  seeking  of  the  old 
parson,  he  little  knew.  Nor  is  it  probable  that  he 
would  have  shrunk  from  the  ordeal,  since  it  held  for 
him  a  faint  and  shadowy  hope  that  somewhere,  in  the 
misty  mazes  of  the  old  man's  memory  there  might 
linger  a  motive  for  his  Mystery,  which  began  to  as 
sume  the  look  of  a  Martyrdom. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    STORY    OF    A    PRISON. 

"  The  act,  over  and  ended,  falls  and  fades  ; 

What  once  was  seen  grows  what  is  now  described, 
Then  talked  of,  told  about,  a  tinge  the  less 
In  every  fresh  transmission,  ''till  it  melts, 
Trickles  in  silent  orange  or  wan  grey 
Across  our  memory,  dies  and  leaves  all  dark, 
And  presently  we  find  the  stars  again" 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

LESLIE  BRACEBRIDGE  cultivated  this  old  creature, 
with  a  nice  homage  that  delighted  the  ex-parson's  soul. 
It  was  difficult  to  keep  him  to  prison  stories  ;  for  he 
had  had  more  than  one  flock  in  his  life-time  ;  and  his 
reminiscences  wandered  over  an  immense  field — 
mostly  among  the  poorer  classes. 

At  last,  however,  it  was  impressed  upon  his  somewhat 
thickening  wits  that  his  new  friend  was  particularly 
interested  in  the  prison-work  he  had  so  faithfully  done. 
Then  he  preached  over  again  the  long  dry  sermons  he 
had  thundered  at  the  convicts.  He  spun  tedious 
yarns  of  refractory  criminals  whose  punishments  he 
sighed  to  relate.  He  harped  upon  mysterious  criminals 
about  whom  nobody  ever  discovered  anything;  and 
pious  criminals  who  tried  to  convert  the  jailor  and  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  305 

turnkeys  ;  and  slippery  criminals  who  had  a  genius 
for  escaping  and  a  corresponding  fatality  for  being 
recaptured. 

These  prolonged  recitals,  the  Poet  endured,  partly 
as  a  means  of  studying  a,  to  him,  unknown  side  of  hu 
man  nature,  but  mostly  because  of  the  growing  im 
pression  lurking  in  his  bosom,  that  John  Wallace  had 
somehow — at  some  time — chosen  to  cast  his  lot  in 
that  dismal  place.  Moreover,  the  old  Parson  had  a 
decided  way  of  his  own,  and  was  not  to  be  stopped,  or 
deviated  from  the  course  of  any  narrative  upon  which 
his  garrulousness  set  out. 

Unconsciously,  Bracebridge  was  looking  for  his 
"bone."  And  moreover — that  lurking  impression! 
If,  in  the  course  of  events  a  presentiment  seems  to 
fulfil  itself,  how  powerful,  how  wonderful,  does  not 
the  recollection  of  it  grow  ?  But  how  about  the  my 
riads  of  presentiments  which,  in  spite  of  nourishing 
and  cherishing,  come  to  nought.  They  are  forgotten. 

Finally,  however,  the  Poet  got  hold  of  the  prison 
record,  and  studying  it  carefully  came  upon  this  entry  : 

''Jan.  10,  1840.  John  Wallace  Monteith,  gentleman  > 
sentenced  for  twenty  years  imprisonment  for  forgery  of 
unit  of  Sir  Randolph  MonteitJi  Bart,  wider  circum 
stance  of  trust" 

Written  below  was  : 

"Escaped,  March  2 is/  1840.  Left  country.  Never 
been  heard  of  since. " 

Over  this  slim  record,  Leslie  Bracebridge  pondered 
and  thought.  Then  he  armed  himself  with  a  bottle  of 
fine  old  Port,  a  pouch  of  excellent  tobacco,  a  fresh 
reinforcement  of  patience,  and  went  toseeauld  Parson 


306  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

McCairn.  The  old  man  was  sunning  himself  in  the 
soft  drowsy  August  shine  that  brought  into  full  relief 
the  myriad  wrinkles  of  his  more  than  four  score  years. 
His  rough  and  weatherbeaten  face  belied  what  was  in 
reality  a  kindly  nature ;  and  this  contrast  came  out  in 
a  certain  mildness  of  speech-form  which  was  pleasant 
enough  to  hear.  He  belonged  to  that  class  of  Scotch 
people  who  have  sluffed  off  their  brogue,  through  a 
certain  sort  of  education  ;  but  not  being  either  of  the 
fashionable,  or  literary,  or  business  world,  have  retain 
ed  the  quaintness  of  expression  so  eminently  Scottish. 

"  John  Monteith,  is  it  ?  "  he  began  in  his  old-fashion 
ed  way,  which  was  at  once  rambling  and  precise ;  "  It's 
a  troublous  story,  I  doubt  not,  and  I  scarce  mind 
whether  or  no  I  can  do  the  telling.  It  may  come  to 
me  betimes,  however,  seeing  that  I  can  mostly  recall 
what  came  to  pass  in  those  forty-five  years  of  prison- 
teaching,  when  the  Lord  was  gude  eneuch  to  abide 
my  puir  efforts.  Na — I  cannot  call  to  mind  the  man 
all  at  once  : — a  gentlemen,  you  say  he  is  written  down  ? 
There's  nought  bye-ordinary  in  that.  I  mind  well 
many  a  gentleman  that's  come  to  abide  in  Edinbro' 
Prison.  It's  no  always  the  low  and  hard-working  class 
that  fills  such-like  places.  There's  been  a  power  o* 
book  learned  men,  and  high  tradesmen,  with  a 
sprinkling  of  better  folks — men  and  women — that's 
come  upon  yon  dark  place  in  my  time.  But  John 
Monteith  !  I  mind  not  anything  past  the  common 
that  chanced  with  him." 

"  He  escaped — in  a  few  months,"  suggested  Brace- 
bridge,  warily. 

"  Escaped  ?    Truly  I  have  gotten  into  years  that  it 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  307 

should  sliy  me  when  any  came  loose  from  their 
bonds." 

He  sat  and  puffed  meditatively  at  his  pipe,  until 
presentlp  a  gleam  of  recollection  lit  up  his  little  shrewd 
eyes. 

"  Aye — Aye  !  John  Monteith.  I  mind  him  well, 
now.  He  abode  in  the  prison  but  a  brief  season, 
though  he  were  a  long  whiles  in  the  jail ;  for  the 
reason  that  the  trial  was  uncommon  slow  of  action. 
I  mind  how  quiet  he  would  bide  at  the  service  of  a 
Sabbath  ;  and  how  great  a  liking  for  him  the  wardens 
and  jailors  had  betimes.  Doubtless  they  helped  him 
out  of  his  captivity  ;  for  there  was  none  of  them  that 
did  not  secretly  name  John  Monteith  innocent.  And 
truly  he  had  the  air  of  one  that  knew  the  Lord.  Like 
wise,  I  was  oft-times  mindful  that  he  had  about  him 
the  look  and  the  ways  of  one  who  suffers  for  the  sake 
of  shielding  another. 

"  Weel,  weel !  It  a'  comes  back  to  me  now.  There 
was  a  bonny  bit  lass  that  used  to  come  day  after  day, 
and  tarry  with  him  in  the  jail  : — a  ward  of  his,  or  his 
father's  I  mind  not  which — a  gold  haired  creature, 
wi'  big  dancing  blue  een  that  had  a  soft,  scared  look. 
She  was  aye  there  of  a  Sabbath  when  I  went  ben  ; 
and  her  een  looked  mirthful  like,  in  spite  of  the  tears 
Tallin'  silent  all  the  whiles." 

The  old  man  paused  as  though  he  could,  even  at 
that  late  day,  conjure  up  the  sweet  picture  :  then  he 
went  on  musingly  ; 

"  She  was  the  lassie  that  John  Monteith  was  to 
marry  upon  ;  but  the  folk  of  the  bonny  leddy  were 
stiffneckcd  and  unrighteous,  she  being  an  heiress,  in 


308  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

her  ain  right,  and  John  Monteith  being  a  poor  second 
son,  without  a  penny  to  call  his  ain. 

"  For  albeit  the  elder  brother  was  imbecile,  and  no 
fit  to  inherit  a  fine  property,  it  was  feared  by  them 
that  the  auld  baronet,  who  was  testy  eneuch  for  any 
thing,  would  make  him  his  sole  devisee  and  legatee. 

"  Now  the  inheritance  of  Sir  Randolph  Monteith's 
properties  by  the  imbecile  son  would  have  been  so 
grievous  a  calamity,  that  John  Monteith  and  his  friends 
persuaded  the  people  of  the  lass  that  it  could  not  come 
to  pass,  and  it  came  to  be  hoped  that  the  will  would 
be  made  upon  the  second  son,  who  was  aye  good  and 
well-beloved  by  the  kin  and  by  the  community.  Sure 
eneuch,  at  lang  last  the  auld  baronet  died  ;  and  when 
the  will  came  to  be  opened  there  was  the  name  of 
John  Monteith  and  none  other.  But  the  lawyers,  who 
it  was  apparent  thought  to  make  much  of  the  job, 
stirred  up  a  great  to-do,  crying  that  there  had  been  a 
wrong  done,  and  the  will  was  a  forgery. 

"I  mind  not  if  it  were  so  or  no  ;  but  if  it  were,  the 
Lord  who  knows  his  ain  made  it  clear  to  me  and  to 
many,  that  John  Monteith  was  nae  the  man  to  do  sic 
a  deed. 

"Ye  see  Mister  Bracebridge,"  continued  the  auld 
parson,  after  meditatively  replenishing  his  pipe,"  the 
young  leddy  was  a  ward  of  the  Monteiths  and  lived  wi' 
them,  though  she  had  kin  of  her  ain.  They  were 
given  to  seeking  the  things  of  this  warld  and  were  set 
upon  giving  her  to  another  ;  and  seek  it  to  aye  hinder 
her  marrying  upon  John  Monteith,  who  was  puir  in 
this  warld's  goods,  to  their  thinking. 

"  Weel — there  was  a  power  o'  testimony,  and  more 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  309 

witnesses  than  is  common,  mostly  among'st  the  peo 
ple  of  the  bairn  ;  for  John  Monteith  never  raised  his 
voice  nor  his  hand  to  rightly  defend  himself.  But  I 
mind  there  was  a  sight  of  plain  evidence  that  went 
for  nought  when  the  prisoner  were  pronounced  guilty. 
It  is  no  common  for  great  folk  hereabouts  to  attend 
the  trials  ;  howsomever,  the  court  was  full  to  over 
flowing,  seeing  the  best  people  in  the  land  knew 

John  Monteith  and  liked  him  well and  for  the 

matter  o'  that,  sae  did  the  lowly.  But  as  I  was  say 
ing,  there  were  more  evidence  in  his  favor  than 
against  him  :  only  that  the  lawyers  and  such  have  aye 
a  way  o'  turning  things  to  some  body's  weel  or  woe." 

*'  Did  John  Monteith  have  no  lawyers  ?  "  questioned 
Braccbridge  eagerly. 

"  Na,  na ;  leastways,  I  mind  not  any  of  account. 
He  was  a  sort  of  lawyer  himself,  and  made  as  though 
he  would  conduct  his  ain  case.  I  call  to  mind  the  up 
roar  there  was  in  court  the  day  the  sentence  fell ;  for 
indeed  it  was  made  apparent  to  all  that  the  deed  was 
putten  upon  a  harmless  creature.  But  he  sat  there — 
John  Monteith— I  see  him  now,  as  it  all  comes  back 
upon  me, — how  grand  and  still  and  stately  he  lookit ; 
and  how  serene  he  bore  it  a',  refusin'  to  defend  him 
self  by  so  much  as  a  word.  His  silence  was  like  that 
of  a  man  who,  being  guilty,  has  naething  to  say  ;  but 
his  look  was  like  that  o'  a  man  who,  being  innocent, 
yet  is  desirous  to  suffer.  He  carried  ever  that  look, 
in  jail,  in  the  prison,  at  the  service,  at  his  wark — like 
as  of  some  superior  being  who  endured  for  anithcr 
body.  I  mind  weel  the  Lord  marked  that  look  and 
kent  it  a'." 


3  to  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

Here  the  old  man  fell  a-dreaming  ;  and  when  the 
Poet  roused  him,  his  thoughts  had  rambled  away  from 
the  story,  and  it  was  not  without  effort  that  his  mind 
was  brought  back.  At  last  he  fell  again  into  the  train 
of  recital. 

"  There  was  one  thing  which  I  aye  marvelled  at, 
and  that  was,  though  her  folk  had  prevented  the  lass 
from  marrying  upon  John  Monteith  when  he  was  an 
unblamed  man,  and  stood  high  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  yet  when  he  fell  under  the  condemnation  of  a 
great  crime,  and  was  disgraced,  with  the  prison  walls 
closing  about  him,  they  let  the  lass  visit  him  in  jail. 
(Later,  when  he  had  escaped,  the  lass,  I  am  told,  had 
gone  likewise.)  It  aye  came  over  me  that  her  kin 
knew  mair  nor  they  would  let  be  proven  o'  that  will. 
Howsomever,  I  have  heard  that  the  bonny  bairn  came 
back  heart-broken  and  alane." 

"  But  who  was  accused  of  the  forgery  besides  John 
Monteith  ?  "  burst  in  Leslie  Bracebridge,  his  imagina 
tion  having  failed  to  supply  a  direct  course  to  the 
rambling  narrative. 

"  Woe's  me  !  "  cried  Parson  McCairn ;  "  Did  I  not 
tell  ye  that ;  of  a  truth,  that  is  the  marvel  of  the 
whole  thing.  Nae  body  was  what  you  may  say,  ac 
cused.  The  ither  story  was  suppressed, — kept  back,— 
covered  over :  ye  ken  a  way  there  is  in  court  o'  doing 
that,  when  the  rich  and  great  are  threatened.  But  it 
was  as  plain  as  day  to  them  that  barkened  at  the  trial 
to  the  much  speaking  of  the  lawyers  and  judges — that 
the  lass  hersel, — Jennie  Stewart  she  was  ca'd — had 
done  the  foul  thing.  Aye,  ye  may  weel  stare.  You 
see,  in  spite  of  the  ill  will  of  the  connexions  who 


THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE.  3  j  i 

wanted  the  lass  to  marry  upon  a  wealthy  laird — she 
lent  no  unwilling  ear  to  John  Monteith  and  was  liken 
to  elope  with  him,  when  the  brother  came  and  brought 
about  a  quarrel.  After  that  came  the  old  baronet's 
death,  and  the  will  in  John  Monteith's  favor,  and  the 
accusations  made  by  the  kin." 

"  Did  John  Monteith  never  deny  the  charges  against 
him  ?  "  A  swift  undercurrent — a  sudden  theory  of 
John  Wallace  had  sprung  up  in  the  listener's  mind. 

"  Na,  I  tell  ye,  mon.  He  neither  affirmed  nor  de 
nied.  He  sat  there  with  his  bonny  head  aye  raised 
proud  and  calm,  and  his  clear  een  fastened  upon  the 
young  thing  that  had  brought  all  the  misery  upon  him. 
If  he  had  but  once  lifted  his  voice,  he  could  have 
turned  the  world  in  his  favor.'' 

"  And  what  did  she  do  ?     How  did  she  behave  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  curious  part, — 'though  I  am  no  one  to 
blame  the  courts, — but  after  the  first  few  days,  when 
she  began  crying  upon  the  judge  to  bear  her  witness 
that  the  prisoner  was  an  innocent  man,  and  saying 
daft-like  things,  they  carried  her  out  of  court  and 
gave  it  out  after  that,  how  she  had  lost  her  wits,  and 
had  no  more  the  right  use  of  her  senses.  I  was  in  a 
manner  taken  by  surprise  the  first  Sabbath  after  the 
prisoner  John  Monteith  was  brought  into  confinement, 
to  see  the  bairn  in  her  ain  senses.  I  was  at  no  hand 
adapted  to  read  out  plain  the  meaning  o'  tangled 
things  ;  but  it  was  clear  to  my  een  that  the  lass  knew 
mair  o'that  will  than  any  ither  boddy,  save  John  Mon 
teith  ;  and  that  she  had  threatened  her  kin  wi'  the 
telling,  if  they  did  not  leave  her  to  gang  her  ain  gate 
and  go  ben  with  her  lover  in  the  jail. 


3i2  THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE. 

"  Later,  when  it  was  a'  over,  the  trial  and  the  sen 
tence  ;  and  he  came  to  abide  in  the  prison,  the  pri 
soner  carried  with  him  that  air  of  innocence  which 
made  it  easy  for  him  to  win  out  again.  I  had  aye  my 
am  thoughts  that  the  lass  was  in  a  manner  privy  to 
his  escape,  and  mayhap  had  helpen  it  on  wi'  siller — 
though  I  was  never  one  to  blame  the  wardens  with 
deceitfulness." 

"  And  what  became  of  John  Monteith  ?  " 
"  Aye — what  ?  "  Parson  McCairn  puffed  vigor 
ously  at  his  pipe.  "  There  was  wark  enough  made 
about  it ;  but  I  doubt  not  every  boddy  was  glad  to 
give  him  the  slippit.  It's  all  been  lang  syne,  an'  nae- 
boddy  has  heard  tell  o'  the  prisoner,  John  Monteith 
since/' 

"  But  the  girl ;  did  she  disappear  finally  ?  " 
"  That  now  I  canna'  call  to  mind,  being  no  hand 
for  curiosity  myself, — no  that  its  an  ill  quality  in  the 
main — but  I  was  about  the  Lord's  work  in  the  jails 
and  prisons,  and  couldna'   follow    the  misguided  out 
into  the  world  itself.     I  mind  that  she  went  and  came 
back,  however,  though  it's  a'  lang  syne." 
"  Do  you  think  I  could  find  her,  Parson  ? " 
"Wae's  me,   mon !     What  for  will   you  find   her? 
Belike  she's  an  auld  body  now,  and  has  nae  wish  to 
upturn  the  darksome  place  of  her  bit  youth." 

"  But  I  think,"  began  Bracebridge  cautiously, 
"  that  I  know  something  of  John  Monteith,  after  he 
left  here.  I  think  that  I  have  found  his  footprints 
in  America." 

"  Aye — aye.  Verra  like.  America's  an  awfu' 
place,  and  is  ever  gettin  the  ill  o'  ither  countries.  I'm 


THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE.      3  T  3 

told  they  send  over  paupers,  and  convicts,  and  the 
like,  to  build  up  their  society.  It'll  be  a  sad  world, 
there." 

"  Where  did  these  people,  these  Stewarts,  live  ?  " 
queried  the  Poet,  modestly,  declining  to  enter  into  a 
defense  of  his  native  place. 

'"Deed  an'  I  canna'  tell  you  that.  The  whole  o' 
Scotland  reeks  wi'  Stewarts,  I  mind  nothing  more  o' 
the  people  than  the  lass'  bit  story." 

The  old  parson  had  grown  testy,  and  was  plainly 
proof  against  further  questioning.  He  had  told  out 
his  tale,  to  his  own  thinking. 

It  was  a  frail  thread  for  the  youth  to  fasten  upon 
for  his  clew ;  but  he  continued  to  haunt  the  prison 
precincts,  asking  fruitless  questions  about  John 
Monteith,  the  Stewarts,  whom  he  could  in  no  way 
extricate  from  the  mass  of  their  name.  He  became 
more  and  more  convinced  that  the  man  who  could 
grandly  sacrifice  himself  in  the  face  of  evidence  so 
easy  to  turn  in  his  favor,  was  like  to  that  other  man, 
who,  unknown  and  untracked,  bore  himself  with  the 
self-same  mien,  across  the  sea. 

To  listen  to  the  half-forgotten  fragments  of  a  once 
thrilling  story,  mumbled  over  by  a  prosy  and  dull- 
souled  narrator,  was  but  a  poor  substitute,  to  his  ar 
dent  nature,  for  a  full  knowledge  of  the  thing  he 
sought.  For  he  knew  that  such  dull  and  stale  repeti 
tions  can  rob  of  their  pathos  the  darkest  tragedies. 
Pondering  it  over,  he  followed  out  the  trail  suggested 
by  Parson  McCairn,  and  came  to  believe : 

ist.  That  John  Monteith,  (or  John  Wallace)  had 
not  committed  the  crime: 


3 14  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

2nd.  That  Jenny  Stewart  was  the  guilty  person : 

3rd.  That  the  just  and  pure  soul  of  the  man  had 
recoiled  from  the  creature  who  could  do  a  dark  deed 
and  then  be  forced  to  permit  another — one  whom 
she  loved — to  suffer  the  penalty  ;  and  that  in  escap 
ing,  he  had  refused  to  take  her  and  her  guilty  secret 
with  him. 

"  It  all  falls  in  with  John  Wallace's  solitary  life — 
his  lack  of  interest  in  the  women  about  him — that 
majestic  widow,  for  instance,  who,"  Bracebridge  re 
flected,  "  must  have  been  young  and  pretty — thirty, 
or  forty  years  ago." 

Yes  :  it  was  altogether  a  likely  story.  In  fact, 
during  several  weeks,  in  which  he  had  come  and  gone 
and  waited  and  watched  and  pried  and  questioned, 
and  found  nothing  that  bore  any  resemblance  to  the 
dead  scholar,  the  probability  grew  strong  upon  him 
and  he  determined  to  pay  Mr.  Roderie  Clarkson 
a  visit. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  found  himself  once  more 
beneath  the  searching  eyes  of  that  august  person, 
the  probabilty  began  to  tremble  in  the  balance. 

"  Well  ?  "  queried  the  Solicitor  in  Chancery,  who 
recognized  himself  and  his  business,  lawyer-fashion, 
at  once  :  "  I  presume  you  stumbled  upon  John  Wal 
lace.  Immediately,  Mr.  Bracebridge." 

"  Not  immediately  ;  nevertheless,  I  think  that  I 
have  found  him  Mr.  Clarkson." 

"  Ah  ?  "  with  his  cynical,  superior  smile. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  found  a  great  and  good  and  generous 
man  who  took  upon  himself  voluntarily  the  sin  of  an 
other." 


.  THE  SHAD  O  W  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  3  x  5 

The  Solicitor's  face  changed  slightly  ;  a  look  of  sur 
prise  reddened  with  a  flush  of  annoyance  crossing  it. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said  briefly. 

"  He  was  a  man  who  could  sacrifice  himself ;  for 
he  renounced  everything  rather  than  let  the  shadow 
of  a  crime  fall  upon  one  he  loved.  Am  I  right  so 
far,  Mr.  Clarkson  ? " 

"  Go  on,"  impatience  mingling  with  the  brevity. 

The  man  of  letters  regarded  the  man  of  law  with  a 
suddenly  waxing  triumph.  The  probable  John  Wal 
lace  was  assuming  magnificent  proportions,  and  al- 
ready's  young  Bracebridge's  heart  was  thumping 
audibly. 

"  He  never  lifted  his  voice  to  defend  himself  from 
base  imputation,  because  it  would  have  been  so 
aeasy  to  prove  who  had  done  the  deed." 

"  May  I  now  interrupt  your  eloquence  to  inquire, 
Mr.  Bracebridge,  Where  you  discovered  this  individual. 
Who  showed  such  a  vast  capacity.  For  self  abnega 
tion  ?  " 

The  solicitor's  irony  roused  the  other's  spirit,  and 
he  answered  firmly  : 

"  I  found  him, — or  the  trace  of  him, — in  the  Edin 
burgh  Prison." 

Mr  Roderic  Clarkson's  face  brightened  perceptibly: 

"  Well  ? " 

"  I  found  him,"  continued  his  antagonist  still  confi 
dently,  "  in  the  person  of  John  Wallace  Monteith,  who 
was  sentenced-unjustly  I  am  persuaded,  for  twenty 
years  imprisonment  for  the  forgery  of  a  will  ;  but 
who  escaped  to  America  in  1840 " 

The  old  lawyer  rose  with  genuine  dignity : 


3  !  6  THE  SHAD  OW  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE. 

"  Mr.  Leslie  Bracebridge,  you  have  been  at  great 
pains,  I  do  not  doubt,  to  discover — the  wrong  man." 

"  Can  it  be  possible  ? "  cried  the  other  excitedly. 

"  And  I  may  as  well  tell  you  this,"  pursued  the  so 
licitor,  "  That  you  will  never  find  John  Wallace. 
Among  convicts  or  felons.  " 

The  poet  was  crushed,  and  proceeded  to  bow  him 
self  hastily  out  of  the  presence  of  that  cynical  smile, 
which  had  returned  as  soon  as  its  owner  heard  the 
mention  of  the  Edinburgh  Prison. 

"  Perhaps  it  will  not  make  your  search  any  too 
easy,"  the  great  man  added,  relenting  as  he  had  done 
before  towards  the  youth  and  enthusiasm  of  his  vis 
itor,  "  to  suggest  that  if  you  look  here.  In  London. 
You  will  come  nearer  to  the  history  you  are  seek 
ing." 

Again  the  young  man  cried  "  Thank  you,"  and 
made  his  dazed  way  into  the  street. 

"  Here — in  London  !  "  he  echoed  :  "  Great  heavens  ! 
And  London  is  twenty  times  the  size  of  Edinburgh  ! 
I  shall  never  find  a  clue  !  " 

And  he  walked  disconsolately  about  the  never  silent 
streets,  until  the  mists  of  evening  had  aided  the  smoke 
of  the  day  to  obliterate  the  Great  City 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE    STORY    OF    A    MADHOUSE. 

"  So  did  this  old  woe  fade  from  memory 
Till  offer,  in  the  fullness  of  the  days, 
I  needs  must  find  an  ember  yet  unquenehed, 
And,  breathing,  blow  the  spark  to  flame.     It  lives 
If  precious  be  the  soul  of  man  to  man" 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

DOES  not  every  one  know  what  it  is  to  wake,  some 
dreary  morning  and  find — through  loss,  or  disappoint 
ment,  or  absence  of  that  vital  interest  in  things  out 
side  of  ourselves  which  we  call  happiness, — that  life 
has  turned  a  blank  side  towards  us  ?  That  we  no 
longer  realize  the  acuteness  of  either  joy  or  pain  ;  but 
go  monotonously  about  our  humdrum  duties  with  a 
benumbed  sense  of  spiritual  remoteness  which  makes 
the  world  seem  hollow  enough,  and  even  our  own 
selves  unreal. 

There  was  a  touch  of  this  bitterness  of  disappoint 
ment  which  mingled  with  Leslie  Bracebridge's  uncer 
tain  experiences  during  the  next  week  or  two  of  un 
directed  wanderings. 

He  went  among  scenes  of  squalor,  as  though  they 
knew  any  secret  but  their  own  wretchedness.  He 
plunged  into  places  of  vice,  as  if  they  could  tell  of 


3i8  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

aught  but  their  own  ruin.  Here  and  there,  Shadows 
mocked  at  him,  saying.  "  We  are  what  you  seek.  We 
are  the  lost  who  are  found." 

For  what  had  at  first  been  but  a  freak  of  fancy  had 
now  grown  to  be  a  mania  with  the  poet,  who  relapsed 
by  rapid  mental  stages  into  that  one-idead  state  which 
is  but  little  removed  from  insanity.  Possibly  it  was 
this  melancholy  condition  of  the  mind  which  drew 
him  sympathetically  to  a  great  Asylum  for  the  Insane 
which  shall  here  be  nameless,  since  the  tragedies  once 
told  there  are  best  forgotten.  Moreover,  he  remem 
bered  the  idle  Rest-Hampton  tale  ;  that  Mr.  Wallace 
had  "  come  over "  with  the  physician  of  an  Insane 
Asylum.  Unfortunately,  Bracebridge  was  not  a  pro 
found  student  of  the  psychological.  He  noted  more 
the  obvious  actions  of  men  and  women  than  the  drift 
of  their  unfulfilled  intentions.  Of  this  he  was  con 
scious. 

"  If  I  succeed  in  evolving  John  Wallace's  ghost 
from  the  secrets  of  a  myriad  of  lives,  it  will  be  by 
grace  rather  than  by  natural  acuteness,"  he  mused 
thankful  that  his  search  was  a  hallucination  and  not 
a  mission.  And  still  the  ghost  tempted  him  on. 

The  London  world  was  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  per 
sistent  rain  when  he  first  made  his  acquaintance  with 
the  doomed  House  of  Misery,  where  the  immured, 
who  are  but  unfortunates  are  treated  as  criminals. 
The  chief  supervisor  displayed  the  annals  of  the  mad 
house  with  pride,  as  a  hotel  keeper  might  gloat  over  a 
full  and  flourishing  establishment.  Often  he  chanced 
upon  a  name  or  a  suggestion  which  struck  him  as 
tempting  an  investigation.  Pie  was  therefore  at  pains  to 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

gather  up  much  worthless  information,  and  several  dire 
tragedies  of  which  his  pen  took  secret  cognizance.  But 
none  of  all  these  spectres  of  the  past  answered  John 
Wallace  to  the  roll-call  of  his  spiritual  perception. 
Then  he  went  to  other  scenes.  At  last,  when  he  had 
searched  London  over  in  an  aimless  fashion,  and  was 
about  giving  up  the  effort  in  sheer  disgust  at  his  fail 
ures,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  made  no  notes  of 
the  women's  department  in  the  great  asylum  he  had 
first  looked  into.  Undoubtedly  the  women  had  stories 
which  would  add  palpably  to  the  article  he  meant  to 
prepare  for  tickling  the  public  palate.  And  so  it  hap 
pened  that  he  gravitated  back  to  the  gray  walls  of  the 
House  of  Suffering. 

About  midway  through  the  female  wards,  Leslie 
Bracebridge  and  his  guide  came  upon  a  hideous  old 
woman  of  seventy  or  over,  who  had  wildly  disordered 
white  hair,  and  fierce  tiger  eyes.  She  was  the  solitary 
inmate  of  one  of  those  little  cage-like  rooms  with 
out  windows,  and  with  iron-grated  doors,  where  are 
thrust  those  hapless  wretches  who  are  deemed  "  vio 
lent,"  and  doomed  like  murderers,  to  solitary  con 
finement.  She  was  talking  and  gesticulating  wildly  ; 
and  when  she  caught  sight  of  Bracebridge,  stretched 
out  a  claw-like  and  skinny  hand  crying :  <;  You,  there, 
whoever  you  are  !  I  tell  you  it  was  I  that  did  it  !— 
they  won't  believe  me,  but  it  was  !  " 

"  What  does  she  mean  ?  "  queried  the  young  man 
gazing  compassionately  upon  the  miserable  wreck  of 
womanhood. 

"  H'it  don't  mean  nothing,  really  sir.  She's  h'al- 
ways  going  on  like  that,"  said  the  attendant  who  was 


320  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE, 

"showing  him  through,"  it  being  visiting  day  at  the 
Institution. 

"  I  should  like  to  talk  to  her,"  said  Bracebridge,  be 
ginning  to  take  out  his  note-book.  Doubtless  this 
hag  would  fit  admirably  into  his  "  Tragedies  of  a 
MadliouscT 

The  guide  then  unlocked  the  grated  door,  remark 
ing  that  Meg  was  "  'armless,  but  troublesome.  "  The 
half  furious  creature  was  out  of  her  cell  at  a  bound. 

"  She  is  horribly  active — for  so  old  a  person,"  re 
marked  Bracebridge  drawing  back  in  acute  distaste 
of  her  sudden  proximity. 

"  Oh  !  she's  h'active  h'enough,"  said  the  keeper. 
"  We  h'only  keep  'er  shut  h'up  for  fear  she'll  do  'er- 
self  some  'arm.  She'd  like  to  kill  'erself — she  would, 
eh,  Meg  ? " 

"  You'll  never  believe  me,  so  where's  the  use  of  an 
swering,"  said  the  mad  woman,  sulkily :  •'  I  killed 
some  one,  once.  That's  enough,  I  don't  want  to  kill 
myself.  I've  expiated  ever  since.  He  told  me  to  re 
pent — repent — repent !  what  good  has  it  done  ?  I 
shall  be  mad  all  the  same,  always  !  I  knoiv  I'm  mad. 
Those  yonder  " — pointing  scornfully  to  a  couple  of 
hideous  creatures  in  straight-jackets,  with  short  hair, 
who  laughed  and  sang  ribald  songs — "  They  don't 
know  they  are  mad.  I  am  mad  ;  but  not  as  mad  as 
they  think.  They  don't  believe  my  story  and  call  it 
mad  talk.  If  I  weren't  mad,  I  shouldn't  tell  it ;  but 
it's  true. 

"Why,  this  old  creature  talks  rationally  enough," 
said  Bracebridge :  "  and  moreover,  she  talks  well. 
She  is  a  good  specimen."  And  the  note-book  was 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  321 

opened.  The  young  man  did  not  mean  to  be  heart 
less  ;  but  youth  and  good  luck  are  always  callous  to 
wards  age  and  misfortune.  It  is  an  inevitable  law  of 
unregenerate  human  nature. 

"  H'oh  !  "  laughed  the  attendant ;  "  you're  not 
much  h'used  to  lunatics,  sir,  h'if  you  take  their  talk 
for  rational.  The  worst  of  them  makes  h'it  sound  quite 
sane  like  mostly — h'at  least  the  visitors  thinks  so," 
she  added  with  a  chuckle. 

"  At  any  rate,  I  should  like  to  hear  this  story  of 
hers  :  "  and  Bracebridge  motioned  to  the  old  creature 
to  sit  on  one  of  the  iron  benches  in  the  corridor 
while  he  cautiously  took  the  next. 

"  No,"  she  muttered  sulkily ;  '  why  should  I  sit 
down  ?  1  don't  get  my  liberty  often  ;  I  had  rather  walk 
about.  Besides,  you'll  not  believe  me.  Nobody  does." 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  believe  ?  " 

"That  I  killed  him." 

"  Whom  ? " 

"My  husband." 

"  Great  heavens  !  "  muttered  the  Poet  nervously  ; 
'•  what  a  singular  avowal." 

"  There  !  "  cried  the  jade  :  "  I  knew  you'd  not  be 
lieve  me."  She  had  been  watching  him  furtively. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  believe  when  I  hear." 

"  No,  you  won't.  But  I'll  tell  you.  It  was  too 
long  ago  to  prove.  They  won't  take  it  up  in  court. 
I  write  to  the  judge  whenever  they'll  give  me  a  scrap 
of  paper.  I've  written  stacks  of  evidence.  But  they 
never  send  it.  Do  you  think  I'm  fool  enough  to  be 
lieve  it's  sent  ?  "  She  laughed  harshly  ;  and  then 
went  on  :  "  If  they  would  let  me  out,  I'd  go  before  a 


322  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

judge  and  accuse  myself,  and  take  an  oath  upon  the 
Book  that  I  killed  Alan  Forbes." 

"  How  did  you  kill  him  ?  " 

"Take  me  before  a  judge  and  let  me  be  sworn — " 
she  cried,  her  eyes  and  cheeks  beginning  to  burn 
more  fiercely:  "Then,  if  I  confess,  he  may  come 
back." 

« Who?— Alan  Forbes?" 

The  woman  laughed,  her  eyes  rolling  and  glar 
ing.  "  As  if  I  wanted  him  back !  and  how  could 
he,  when  I  killed  him  ?  They'll  lockjaw  up  for  mad, 
if  you  talk  like  that.  Oh !  "  she  cried,  with  a  sud 
den  pathetic  change  of  tone  and  look,  "  I've  con 
fessed  and  confessed  to  everyone  that  comes;  and 
none  will  believe  me !  Go  find  Judge  Keith  for 
me  !  "  She  burst  out  with  a  wild  and  terrible  an 
guish — "  Go  out  into  the  world — across  the  sea — any 
where — and  find  him.  Go  bring  him  back  and  tell 
him  that  I  have  expiated." 

She  was  sobbing  in  a  frenzied  way,  and  wringing 
her  wretched  hands.  Bracebridge  felt  his  compas 
sion  stirred  to  the  quick,  but  his  curiosity  was  still 
unappeased. 

"Who  is  Judge  Keith?" 

"  He  is  my  lover,"  she  cried,  in  a  stealthy  whisper  ; 
her  sudden  anguish  changed  in  a  flash  into  fierce 
and  cunning  secrecy:  "He  saw  me  do  it,  and  he 
could  not  live  in  the  same  world  with  me,  and  not 
accuse  me — for  he  was  the  soul  of  justice — and 
honor — "  She  broke  off,  glaring  with  dreadful  ani 
mosity  at  the  keeper  who  here  returned  and  paused, 
grinning  at  the  pair. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  323 

"  She's  got  that  far  'as  she  ?  There's  a  lot  yet.  I 
'  ope  you  h'aint  tired,  sir.  She's  got  herself  somehow 
mixed  h'up  with  Judge  Keith,  who,  I'm  told,  really  did 
disappear  years  ago." — 

"  Hold  your  tongue — devil  !  "  cried  the  mad  woman 
with  a  menace  in  her  voice.  "  Don't  you  speak  his 
name !  Send  her  away,"  she  cried,  appealingly  to  the 
stranger  whose  ear  she  had  got.  "  She  is  a  fool.  She 
thinks  she  knows.  I  alone  know  why  Robert  Keith  left 
his  home,  his  friends,  his  fortune,  his  position,  his  good 
name" — 

Her  words  died  off  in  a  wail  ;  but  there  was  a 
majesty  of  truth  about  the  wretched  creature's  whole 
mien  that  transformed  her  in  the  Poet's  eyes.  The 
attendant  laughed  coarsely  and  passed  on.  Meg 
watched  her  with  hatred  in  her  eyes. 

"  They  are  all  fools,"  she  whispered  contemptuously 
in  one  of  those  swift  startling  changes  only  possible 
to  the  deranged.  "  They  call  my  talk  mad.  Hear  me 
— you.  Will  you  or  will  you  not  believe  me  ?  "  Her 
tone  was  so  menacing,  she  looked  so  threatening  that 
Bracebridge  hastened  to  assure  her  of  his  entire  cred 
ulity. 

"  Are  you  a  lawyer  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  can  fetch  you  one,"  he  said  soothingly. 

"  Pshaw  !  I  know  what  that  is  worth  !  nobody  keeps 
a  promise — to  a  lunatic.  Get  out  your  book,  there, 
you  shall  at  least  take  my  testimony." 

"  I  will  take  it,  and  publish  it,"  said  Bracebridge 
earnestly. 

"  Yes,"  she  cried  in  sudden  excitement.  "  Pub 
lish  it  far  and  wide.  Send  it  across  the  sea,  that 


324  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

it  may  reach  Robert  Keith.  He  doesn't  call  him 
self  that.  He  has  some  other  name — I  forget.  Write." 

Her  tone  was  so  commanding,  and  her  bearing  at 
odd  moments  so  majestic,  that  the  young  man  was 
puzzled  what  manner  of  woman  this  lost  being  had 
been.  He  began  to  write  nervously.  Then  she  spoke 
calmly,  distinctly,  and  with  a  singular  elegance  of 
intonations  : 

"  My  name  is  Margaret  Blair.  That  is  my  maid 
en  name — the  one  Robert  Keith  knew  me  by.  I 
was  but  sixteen  when  Alan  Forbes  married  me. 
He  was  a  drunkard  and  a  devil.  Here,  in  the  presence 
of  witnesses  and  the  open  court,  I  swear  that  he  was 
a  fiend  incarnate." 

(Then  followed  some  terrible  denunciations  which 
the  Poet  omitted.) 

"  I  left  him  after  three  years  and  came  to  London, 
and  lived  quietly  under  my  maiden  name,  I  was  not 
afraid  of  Alan  Forbes  following  me,  for  he  was  never 
sober,  and  was  moreover  afraid  of  the  Penitentiary. 

"  I  had  money  of  my  own,  and  I  took  a  pretty  place 
out  of  town,  where  I  lived  with  only  my  old  governess 
for  protection.  I  had  but  few  relatives,  and  I  made 
out  to  them  that  I  had  gone  to  India  with  a  cousin 
who  received  and  forwarded  all  my  letters. — Tell  me, 
does  this  sound  like  mad  talk  ? " 

"  No — oh,  no  !  "  cried  Bracebridge,  amazed  and  sub 
dued. 

"  Write  : — Judge  Keith  had  the  next  place.  If 
an  angel  ever  trod  the  earth,  it  was  Robert  Keith. 
Only  he  was  an  angel  of  justice  as  well  as  of  love. 
He  was  forty-five  years  old  when  I  first  met  him, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  325 

and  had  a  grand  face — like  the  angel  Gabriel.  He 
had  never  looked  upon  a  woman  to  love  her  :  but  he 
loved  me.  I  could  not  have  had  wickedness  in  my 
heart,  or  that  god-like  man  would  not  have  loved  me. 
But  he  did  love  me  !  for  five  years.  We  were  to  be 
married  and  / never  told  him  about  Alan  Forbes!  I 
could  not.  It  seemed  too  terrible  to  have  been  true. 
I  could  not  believe  that  I  had  ever  been  scorched  by 
such  fires.  Then," — she  sat  down  suddenly  and 
clutched  Bracebridge's  hand  in  her  claw-like  fingers. 
He  could  feel  the  sharp  nails  upon  his  flesh  : 

"  Then — that — devil — came  to  light — and— found 
me  O2it."  She  gasped  the  words  slowly,  and  sat  pant 
ing  for  a  few  seconds.  In  the  house  there  was  a  bustle 
somewhere  down  the  corridor,  and  two  keepers  carried 
off  a  rebellious  wretch,  shrieking.  It  brought  her 
back  to  her  recital  with  terrified  haste. 

"  Go  on.  Write.  They  will  come  for  me  next — • 
and  then  my  mind  goes  !  oh,  write  ! — He  came  more 
drunken,  more  bestial  then  ever.  I  concealed  his 
existence  from  the  great  and  good  man  that  loved  me 
and  meant  to  marry  me.  I  knew  he  would  never  for 
give  my  deception — how  could  he  ?  I  grew  anxious 
and  ill.  He  questioned  me  tenderly.  I  lied  to  him. — 
Say,  do  you  believe  me  ?" 

"  I  do  indeed.  What  you  say  bears  the  evidence  of 
truth.  I  have  put  it  all  down." 

"  You  are  good,"  cried  the  poor  creature  piteously. 
"  No  one  else  has  let  me  get  so  far — that  wicked, 
coarse  woman  is  always  near.  Go  on  !  Write  it  clown 
—that  I  have  confessed,  and  that  I  repent,"  she  cried 
wildly. 


3  26  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  You  must  first  tell  me  what  you  did,  and  how 
Robert  Keith  found  you  out,"  said  Bracebridge  sooth 
ingly. 

"Yes,  he  found  me  out.  The  fiend  who  had  been 
the  curse  of  my  youth  hung  about,  debauched,  sly,  de 
graded,  malicious.  He  suspected  something,  I  think. 
A  dozen  times  his  vile  presence  barely  escaped  de 
tection.  But  I  loved  Robert  Keith  and  "was  determined 
to  marry  him — in  spite  of  that  other.  You  think  it 
absurd,  perhaps,  for  a  hideous  creature  like  me  to 
talk  of  love  and  marriage.  I  was  not  hideous  then. 
Robert  Keith  said  that  I  was  beautiful.  Now  I  can't 
see  myself,  but  I  see  the  others.  I  look  like  that " — 
she  pointed  to  a  miserable  and  filthy  creature  with 
disheveled  gray  hair,  and  then  went  on,  almost  inco 
herently,  the  words  stumbling  hotly  one  upon  another, 
in  her  haste  to  tell  her  woe  : 

"Twice  I  paid  him  to  keep  away,  but  he  always 
came  back.  One  day,  after  a  week's  respite,  when  I 
had  all  my  belongings  packed  to  go  away  to  the 
hills — professedly  for  my  health — he  stumbled  into 
my  morning  room,  intoxicated,  brutal,  and  in  a  raging 
fever.  Before  I  could  have  him  removed,  he  had  fal 
len  into  a  sort  of  fit — a  convulsion — something  of  the 
sort.  I  was  forced  to  send  for  a  physician,  who 
pronounced  it  the  worst  form  of  delirium  tremens, 
and  said  that  the  man  must  die. 

"  '  When  ? '  I  questioned  feverishly  ;  for  I  was  half 
mad  with  the  thought  that  Robert  Keith  might  dis 
cover  him.  '  Soon,'  he  said  :  '  In  a  week — any  time  : 
another  fit  will  kill  him.' 

"  I  covered  my  face  in  terror.     If  he  should  live — a 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  327 

week !  How  could  I  keep  it  all  from  Robert !  I 
wanted  to  tell  the  physician  not  to  help  him,  but  I 
dared  not.  /  was  not  mad  then. 

"  That  night  the  convulsion  came  back.  '  Now  he 
will  die  ! '  I  thought,  and  trembled  for  joy.  But  he 
grew  better.  The  night  wore  on.  By  mid-day  the 
next  day,  after  the  doctor  had  come,  and  given  me 
hope — hope  ? — It  was  the  anguish  of  despair  ! — and 
gone,  I  could  not  bear  it.  He  must  die.  I  ran  and 
fetched  a  phial  of  laudanum  and  forced  it  between  his 
teeth.  1  said  to  myself :  '  It  will  put  him  to  sleep  ! ' 
But  all  the  while  that  I  was  pouring  the  liquid  down 
his  throat,  I  knew  that  I  meant  to  kill  him. — Are  you 
writing  every  word  ?  " 

"  Every  syllable,"  said  the  other,  showing  his  short 
hand  notes. 

The  woman  sprang  at  him  like  a  wild  beast : 

"  You  have  been  trifling  with  me,"  she  hissed  in 
his  ear.  "  That  is  nothing — mere  scratches.  You 
too  have  deceived  me  !  " 

"  On  my  word  of  honor  it  is  genuine,"  cried  Brace- 
bridge,  retreating  hastily  :  "  It  is  a  new  method  of 
writing.  I  can  read  every  word :  "  and  he  read  several 
sentences  at  random. 

"  It  is  very  curious,"  she  said  slowly  ;  "  but  I  will 
believe  you.  Write  :  Suddenly,  as  I  stood  with  the 
empty  phial  in  my  hand,  I  looked  up.  There  was 
Robert  Keith  with  a  terrible  look  in  his  grand  and 
luminous  face. 

"  I  was  paralyzed  with  terror,  and  a  sudden  horror 
of  what  I  had  done.  He  held  out  his  hand  for  the 
phial.  I  can  see  him  now,"  she  moaned  shivering, 


3  28  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE, 

"  as  he  stood  there,  tall  and  firm  and  terrible — like  an 
accusing  angel — holding  out  his  hand. 

"  '  Who  is  that  man  you  have  murdered  ? '  he  asked. 

"  '  My  husband  ! '  I  cried  passionately  and  in  desper 
ation  ;  but  I  was  afraid  of  the  dreadful  look  in  his 
face.  '  Have  mercy  upon  me  ! '  I  begged  ;  but  all 
the  same  I  knew  that  he  would  not  have  mercy,  but 
justice."  The  ill-starred  creature  fell  back,  panting. 

"  And  did  he  betray  you  ?  " 

"  Betray  me  ! — He  !  "  a  fiery  glance  of  intense 
scorn  darted  from  her  blood-shot  eyes.  "If  he  only 
had — I  might  have  died  in  the  prison — or  on  the  gal 
lows — what  matter,  so  it  was  not  here  and  after  years 
and  years  of  torture.  He  would  have  been  spared 
the  fate  he  took  upon  himself,  and  I  should  have  es 
caped  this  hell-house.  Do  you  think  death  is  worse 
than  this — do  you  ?  " 

She  laughed  frightfully.  A  chill  went  through  the 
Poet's  sensitive  frame,  but  he  mastered  himself  and 
went  on  steadily  : 

"  But  you  have  not  told  me  what  happened — after 
wards — after  he  had  discovered  what  you  had  done. 
I  cannot  write  your  testimony  if  you  leave  that  out." 

"  Afterwards  !  "  she  cried  wildly.  "  How  can  I  tell  ? 
I  never  saw  him  again — I  never  saw  his  face  after 
that  look,  when  he  stood  like  the  avenging  angel — or 
wait ;  I  did  see  him — once  ;  in  another  country, — 
America  or  India, — but  I  forget.  It  pains  my  head  to 
talk  of  that.  When  I  came  to  myself,  after  weeks 
of  fever,  he  had  gone — no  one  knew  where.  That 
was  his  way  of  administering  justice.  Some  one  must 
expiate.  Jesus  of  Nazareth  suffered  that  way." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  339 

"  Did  no  one  else,  suspect  ?  " 

"  No — no  one.  When  the  doctor  came,  he  found  Alan 
Forbes  dead,  and  I  was  lying  on  the  floor  in  a  swoon. 
He  thought  it  was  grief.  Afterwards,  he  told  me  I 
had  done  well  to  rub  the  patient  with  spirits,  to 
pour  some  down  his  throat ;  but  that  nothing  could 
have  saved  him.  Then  I  knew  that  Robert  Keith  had 
tried  to  resuscitate  the  man  ;  or  tried  to  cover  up  my 
guilt." 

The  poor  wretch  sat  gazing  into  the  ink-pool 
of  her  lot,  relapsing  fast  into  her  usual  stupor  or  in 
coherence. 

At  last  Bracebridge  succeeded  in  rousing  her  once 
more." 

"  I  sought  him  all  over  England.  Then  I  went  to 
Scotland  and  searched  for  his  people  ;  for  I  knew  he 
was  of  Scotch  birth," — 

Here  the  Poet  started  up,  and  then  sat  down  again 
without  speaking. 

"  At  last  I  found  them  and  heard  from  them  that 
he  had  left  the  country — given  up  his  position  on  the 
bench,  his  fortune — everything — and  gone,  no  one 
knew  where,  or  why.  They  thought  that  his  mind 
had  suddenly  become  deranged,  and  that  if  he  recov 
ered  he  would  return.  But  they  had  not  been  able 
to  discover  any  trace  of  his  whereabouts.  They  were 
not  very  near  of  kin  :  his  parents  were  dead  and  he 
had  neither  brother  nor  sister.  That  was  why  they 
did  not  discover  him.  But  I  discovered  him.  I  left 
no  stone  unturned,  no  method  untried.  But  it  was 
such  a  great  way  off — oh  !  "  cried  the  poor  creature 


330  THE  SHAD  OW  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE. 

— "  my  head — my  head  !  "  and  she  pressed  her  hands 
to  her  forehead  as  if  in  bodily  pain. 

Bracebridge  looked  at  her  compassionately  ;  but  he 
had  another  story  to  fathom  besides  the  tragedy  of 
her  wretchedness. 

"  And  you  followed  him  ? "  he  asked  distinctly. 

"  Yes  ! — oh,  yes  !  but  he  sent  me  back.  Don't  ask 
me  of  that ;  you  are  not  assembled  in  the  court-room 
to  ask  me  of  that,  before  these  witnesses.  They  are 
here  to  listen  when  I  accuse  my  own  hand  of  the  mur 
der  of  Alan  Forbes.  They  are  not  here  to  listen 
when  I  accuse  Robert  Keith  of  cruelty  and  injustice 
— he  who  was  a  very  God  of  justice  ?  I  tell  you,  I 
will  not  answer  one  question  more.  No  man  shall 
ask  me  of  my  secret  :  it  is  my  crime  that  is  your 
business,  my  Lord  and  gentlemen  of  the  Jury — not 
my  humiliation." 

"  But  where  was  he,  when  you  followed  him  ?  "  per 
sisted  the  other,  reaching  with  such  eagerness  for  the 
broken  threads,  that  he  could  not  for  the  moment 
accept  the  sudden  cloud  of  lunacy  that  had  returned 
over  the  wretched  woman's  hitherto  direct  narra 
tive. 

"  How  dare  you  seek  to  follow  me  on  that  journey  ?  " 
cried  she,  springing  up  with  a  threatening  gesture,  but 
at  once  fell  back  with  her  hands  upon  her  head,  rock 
ing  and  moaning. 

"  How  shall  I  find  him — you  want  me  to  find  him," 
persisted  the  baffled  Poet,  regarding  her  with  a  deep 
ening  sense  of  despair. 

"  Go  and  find  him — as  I  found  him.  Seek  for  him 
over  the  world— as  I  sought.  Find  him— a  man  en- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  331 

tombed  among  the  graves  of  his  hopes.  There  was  a 
mist  about  him  :  and  he  was  carried  up  in  it,  like  an 
angel.  There  was  a  storm  at  sea,  and  he  walked  up 
on  the  waters,  like  a  Christ.  Oh  !  you  will  know  him, 
if  you  find  him.  There  is  no  other  creature  upon  this 
earth  with  that  awful,  God-like  look  in  his  face — oh  ! 
my  head,  my  head  !  " 

The  woman  seemed  to  swoon  away,  and  in  his 
fright  Bracebridge  beckoned  to  the  attendant  who 
hovered  near,  suspicious  of  the  climax. 

"  She  h'always  gits  a  spell  when  she's  h'excited 
with  talk,"  remarked  that  female  gruffly,  and  she 
pushed  the  half  insensible  creature  into  her  cell :  "  I 
can't  see  why  folks  wants  lunatics  to  talk.  Old  your 
tongue,  Meg,  or  h'  I'll  sleeve  you." 

"  I  wonder  if  she  was  crazy  when  she  followed  that 
man  to  America — or  India — or  wherever  it  was," 
mused  Bracebridge  aloud. 

The  attendant  paused  in  locking  the  heavy  grated 
door  to  stare  at  him  : 

"  La,  sir.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  believe  a 
word  of  that  story  !  " 

"  I  do  indeed  ;  and  I  think  I  know  Robert  Keith." 

"  H'as  to  Judge  Keith — Vs  well  h'enough.  HTvc 
'card  there  were  such  a  person  ;  but  that  Meg  should 
mix  'erself  h'up  with  'im — that's  the  joke.  Like 
enough,  she's  h'always  been  crazy." 

The  frenzied  creature,  who  had  partly  roused  up  on 
being  thus  rudely  thrust  into  her  cell,  here  flashed 
out  with  a  final  effort  of  departing  reason  and  strength. 
— But  why  follow  to  its  hideous  climax  that  revolting 
tragedy.  Let  us  draw  a  veil  rather  upon  the  awful 


332  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

spectacle  which  can  be  presented  by  one  who  is — in 
spite  of  all — a  human  being. 

"Great  Heavens!  what  a  dispensation!"  cried 
the  Poet,  as  he  stood  outside  the  gloomy  gates  of 
that  Inferno,  and  seemed  to  read  over  its  grated  en 
trance  the  old,  old  sentence  of  woe  : 

"  Lasciate  ogni  spetanza  voi  ch  '  entrate." 

Could  it  be  that  while  he  was  planning  to  entertain 
the  public  with  other  and  lesser  misfortunes,  the  mys 
tery  of  John  Wallace  had  risen  up  and  confronted 
him  in  so  hideous  a  guise,  thrusting  its  cruel  secret 
upon  his  flippant  intention  ? 

The  young  man  tried  to  imagine  a  conscience  so 
acute  that  it  "  could  not  breath  the  same  air"  with 
one  whom  it  felt  called  upon  by  the  sacredness  of  the 
highest  judicial  position  to  condemn,  and  by  the 
tenderness  of  personal  feeling  to  acquit.  So  this  poor 
criminal  herself  had  viewed  the  matter. 

He  recalled  the  conscious  look  upon  Mr.  Roderic 
Clarkson's  stone  mask,  when  he  had  spoken  of  John 
Wallace  as  a  man  who  had  suffered  for  the  sin  of  an 
other.  The  perplexity  was  such  that  Bracebridge  de 
termined  to  see  the  great  solicitor  at  once. 

All  the  way  to  Lothbury,  in  the  quick  darting  little 
hansom,  which  sent  the  crowds  of  London  skimming 
by  like  the  figures  upon  a  magic-lantern  slide,  the 
young  man  wrestled  with  his  problem.  It  almost 
seemed  as  though  the  questions  were  not — "Is  this 
John  Wallace  ? "  but  "  /;/  doing  this  thing  was 
he  right,  or  wrong?"  And  he  came  upon  the 
large  brass  plate,  "  Mr.  Roderic  Clarkson,  Solicitor  in 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  333 

Chancery,"  before  he  had  made  up  his  mind  about 
the  calamitous  tale. 

It  was  more  than  a  month  since  he  had  been  there 
last  ;  for  time  had  not  stood  still  while  he  dragged  the 
great  city  for  the  dregs  of  its  miseries. 

Mr.  Clarkson,  he  was  informed,  was  ill,  and  had 
gone  to  Brighton.  He  might  not  return  before  late 
in  the  Autumn  ;  if  quite  recovered  he  might  possibly 
be  back  in  a  fortnight  or  two. 

All  this  in  the  monotonous  tone  of  oft-repetition 
which  is  unmoved  by  the  anxieties  it  aggravates,  and 
the  chagrins  it  crushes.  It  was  a  fiat. 

When  Bracebridge  returned  to  the  asylum,  he  was 
informed  that  no  one  would  be  allowed  to  see  Meg 
Blair,  in  future,  as  the  excitement  of  speech  had  been 
proved  most  injurious  to  her.  In  vain  he  pleaded 
that  he  had  reasons  which  were  of  importance  for 
seeing  her  once  more.  It  was  impossible.  The  laws 
and  restrictions  of  an  insane  asylum  are  absolute. 
The  mad  woman,  and  her  possible  revelations,  were 
gone  from  him  forever,  but  there  remained  with 
him  an  assurance  that  his  search  was  ended.  This 
belief  filled  him  with  a  restless  impatience  to  wring 
from  Sir  Roderic  Clarkson's  reluctance  the  affirma 
tion  he  desired.  He  lingered  in  London  until  it  be 
came  evident  that  the  solicitor's  visit  to  Brighton 
was  likely  to  prolong  itself  through  the  Autumn,  and 
then  the  stir  of  the  huge  metropolis  became  unbear 
able.  Moreover,  he  was  haunted  by  the  spectre  of 
Margaret  Blair's  misery,  which  he  felt  somehow  was 
owing  to  his  encouragement  of  her  passionate  recital. 


334  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

Very  likely  the  poor  wretch  would  henceforth  be 
consigned  to  perpetual  incarceration  in  the  loneliness 
of  her  cell ;  or  at  best  would  be  debarred  from  ever 
again  finding  the  relief  of  telling  her  wild  story. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE   STORY    OF    A    RUIN. 


" '  This  grey  place  was  famous  once,'  said  he — 
And  he  began  that  legend  of  the  place, 
As  if  in  answer  to  the  unspoken  fears, 
And  told  me  all  about  a  brave  man  dead; 
Which  lifted  me  and  let  my  soul  go  on.  " 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

THE  restlessness  which  had  come  upon  Leslie 
Bracebridge  since  his  failure  to  see  the  London  so 
licitor,  had  driven  him  forth  to  take  a  journey  among 
the  seldom  explored  wastes  of  border  country. 

There  are  miles  of  moorland  which  it  seems  truly 
a  desecration  for  steam  to  traverse  ;  and  running  in  a 
low  and  distant  line  are  the  Cheviot  Hills. 

Ah  !  Jean  Gordon !  It  must  be  that  thy  mighty 
shade,  which  once  inspired  a  Meg  Merrilies,  haunts 
this  region  yet ;  for  the  Poet  presently  came  upon  a 
scene  that  carried  his  fancy  back  to  the  border  gyp 
sies  of  a  hundred  years  ago. 

The  farther  from  London  he  felt  himself  trans 
ported  the  more  there  came  over  him  a  spirit  of  peace 
which  enabled  him  to  "  bide  a  wee, "  as  the  Scotch 


336  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

folks  say.  What  haste  was  there  to  set  the  seal  of 
certainty  upon  the  denouement  he  had  found,  and 
thereby  to  end  the  purpose  of  his  summer's  quest? 
Now  that  the  time  had  well-nigh  come  when  he  was 
to  hold  in  his  hand  the  lost  links  of  the  dead  man's 
career,  he  suddenly  came  to  a  regretful  pause  upon 
the  brink  of  thefina/e. 

Some  of  the  staunch  Scotch  closeness  gathered 
about  his  interest  in  the  "  old  woe, "  and  he  won 
dered,  at  last,  by  what  right  he  had  made  it  his. 

He  spent  days  in  wandering  among  the  unvisited 
regions  that  he  had  chosen  unawares.  The  loveliness 
of  the  moors,  the  serenity  of  the  hills,  the  mournful- 
ness  of  the  brackens,  all  spoke  to  him  of  silence  ; 
and  he  became  a  veritable  dreamer  among  the  wastes. 

******    jj.    was    a    menow    evening,    and   he 

found  himself  creeping  about  in  the  gloaming  as 
though  the  spirits  he  had  sought  to  disturb  were  beck 
oning  towards  a  vast  and  remote  solitude.  Just  beyond 
lay  a  decayed  and  poverty-stricken  little  village,  which 
was  half  concealed  beyond  a  group  of  hills  in  a  deso 
late  region  he  had  not  yet  traversed.  He  was  tempt 
ed  onward  until  he  found  himself  among  the  sicken 
ing  sights  and  odors  of  squalor,  filth,  and  pestilence, 
quite  unusual  in  thrifty  Scotland. 

The  people  whom  he  saw  dawdling  about  in  the 
filthy  yards  and  lanes  had  a  look  of  gypsies  or  va 
grants  ;  and  the  Poet  soon  found  himself  in  a  state  of 
wonderment  as  to  how  they  managed  to  subsist,  since 
he  saw  nothing  that  suggested  industry  of  any  sort, 
or  even  tilling  of  the  fields  which  were  wide  wastes 
of  bog  or  heather. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  337 

Yet  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  the  ruinous  habita 
tions  had  been  by  no  means  built  to  be  the  hovels  of 
the  poor.  They  were  of  a  large  and  stately  appear 
ance,  which,  in  spite  of  their  filthy  and  dilapidated 
condition,  still  bespoke  past  grandeur. 

Vice  and  wretchedness  stared  from  every  shattered 
window  and  gaping  door-way,  crawled  over  every 
broken  sill,  and  ran  riot  about  the  neglected  gardens. 

Half-starved  pigs  and  sickly  children  swarmed  in 
unlovely  picturesqueness  over  the  whole  festering 
village ;  while  the  men  and  women  glowered  at  the 
new-comer  with  the  surly  looks  of  those  who  regard 
a  stranger  as  an  intruder. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  your  village  ?  "  Bracebridge 
asked  politely  of  a  surly  looking  fellow  who  lounged 
against  a  bit  of  broken  wall,  pieced  out  by  a  long  since 
overgrown  hedge. 

"  Deed  an'  I  dinna  ken  that,"  growled  the  man. 

"  Don't  you  live  here,  my  friend  ? " 

"  We  bide  in't.  whiles." 

"  Has  it  got  no  name  ?  "  persisted  the  visitor,  who  it 
may  be  seen  was  not  without  determination. 

"  Na — its  got  nae  name,  the  day." 

"  May  I  ask,   what  did  it  used  to  be  called  ? " 

The  man  muttered  an  oath  and  blurted  out: 

"  It  were  ca'wd  Cammerden  Manor,"  and  shuffling 
around  presented  the  broad  of  his  tattered  back  to 
any  further  conversation. 

Bracebridge  laughed  quietly  to  himself,  but  went  on, 
quite  sure  that  he  would  encounter  yet  the  Scotch 
garrulity  which  is  fairly  interspersed  with  its  gruffer 
characteristics. 


338  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

A  brawny,  red-haired  woman  called  out  to  the  man 
in  a  harsh  voice  like  the  scream  of  a  pea-fowl : 

"  Yer  muckle  daft,  Tarn  Binnie  !  Did  ye  nae  mind 
the  braw  claes  an'  gentle  havins  o'  him  as  speered  at 
ye  ?  Canna  ye  open  yer  mouth  for  siller  ? " 

The  man  repeated  his  sullen  oath  in  reply,  and  the 
visitor  passed  on,  unmolested,  through  the  stench  of 
the  long  straggling  village  street. 

The  next  day  he  was  drawn  thither  again  by  what 
magnetism  he  knew  not.  This  time  he  held  converse 
with  one  or  two  creatures  of  more  likely  appearance 
than  the  man  first  addressed.  As  well  as  he  could 
decipher  from  the  broad  Scotch  speech,  (which  was 
perchance  eased  to  his  ears  somewhat,  as  he  had  been 
used  in  his  childhood  to  the  dialect  of  a  Scotch  nurse) 
he  made  out  that  the  Manor  had  been,  fifty  years  ago, 
a  settlement  of  great  and  wealthy  people,  who  came 
down  from  Edinburgh,  and  some  from  London,  for 
half  the  year  to  live  at  their  ease  upon  the  fine  hunt 
ing  and  fishing  lands,  where  they  had  built  "shooting 
boxes"  and  country  mansions  that  were  rival  palaces 
in  their  beauty  and  completeness. 

The  Earl  of  Earnshope  had  cwned  the  village  and 
the  country  round  about,  and  a  great  castle  not  far 
away,  across  the  moor. 

There  were  Melton  Brae,  and  Ellerslie,  and  Bryn 
Gowen,  and  many  more  fine  places  that  had  belonged 
to  the  gentry,  but  were  long  ago  gone  to  ruin. 

Bracebridge  was  filled  with  curiosity  about  the  pas- 
ing  from  the  soil  of  its  land-owners  in  so  few  years, 
knowing  that  not  to  be  the  way  of  the  old  world.  But 
all  the  information  he  could  get  was  that  the  region  was 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  339 

haunted  ;  and  that  the  great  folks  had  been  scared 
away  by  a  curse  which  had  fallen  upon  them.  Even  the 
present  occupants  seemed  to  hold  some  superstition 
about  dwelling  there,  affirming  that  they  did  but 
"bidein't." 

"  What  became  of  the  fine  houses  ?  he  asked  of  the 
dirty  crowd  that  his  shillings  had  drawn  about  him. 
A  slipshod  woman  replied  promptly  : 

"  Deed  an'  they  say  it  was  the  deil's  fire." 

"  What  became  of  the  former  inhabitants  of  the 
village  ? " 

She  shook  her  head  :  "  There  might  be  some  as 
kent ;  but  maistly  we  be  puir  ignorant  boddies  that  hae 
com'  frae  ilka  parts  an'  squatted  upo'  the  Ian'." 

"  Is  there  nobody  left  of  all  the  former  inhabitants  ?" 
Bracebridge  demanded  in  amazement. 

"  Na — naebody  at  a'." 

And  forthwith,  he  began  to  frequent  the  place,  sure 
of  finding  something  poetic  back  of  this  ignorance 
and  squalor,  and  desertion. 

One  afternoon  in  the  afterglow  of  the  wide  sunset, 
he  wandered  deep  into  a  little  wood,  and  came 
suddenly  upon  the  wild  beauty  of  a  noble  ruin.  It 
was  the  remains  of  a  small  but  majestic  structure 
which  had  once  been  a  Gothic  church,  one  could  see, 
by  the  fragments  of  majestic  windows,  and  the  shat 
tered  portion  of  a  tall  belfry  that  was  still  standing. 

Enchanted  with  his  luck  in  stumbling  upon  so  rare 
a  bit  of  sequestered  loveliness,  he  tramped  about  in 
artistic  content  among  the  ivy-mantled  turrets  and 
into  the  long  desolated  sanctum  of  the  chancel,  where 
the  stone  pavement  was  weather-stained  and  displaced. 


340  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

The  yltar  stairs  were  broken  by  the  harshness  of  the 
elements,  and  mended  again  by  many  colored  mosses 
and  all  manner  of  creeping  things,  that  nature  sends 
to  repair  the  ravages  of  her  stormier  moods.  The 
pulpit,  the  railing,  the  pews,  every  fragment  of  wood 
about  the  edifice,  had  been  burned  away,  or  carried 
off  by  the  wild  villagers  of  whom  Bracebridge  had  had 
a  glimpse. 

The  Poet  felt  himself  transported  into  a  region  of 
speculation  and  wonderment  that  caused  him  to  take 
no  note  of  time.  And  the  gloaming  had  crept  stealth 
ily  upon  him :  the  bats  and  owlets  and  such  like 
denizens  of  solitary  and  melancholy  places,  were 
stirring  before  he  could  tear  himself  away.  When 
he  did,  it  was  to  meditate  resting  for  the  night  among 
the  doubtful  shades  of  the  village,  hoping  that  he 
might  thereby  chance  upon  some  one  who  could  tell 
him  the  tale  of  Cammerden  Manor  and  its  downfall. 

Making  his  way  through  the  growing  darkness, 
towards  a  light  that  gleamed  faintly  from  a  patched 
window  upon  the  edge  of  the  settlement,  beyond  which 
was  the  wild  moor,  he  presently  knocked  at  a  hinge- 
less  and  broken  door. 

"  Whist  ye — what's  wanted  ?  "  cried  a  piping  voice 
like  that  of  a  very  old  man. 

"  It's  a  stranger  that  is  benighted  and  wants  shel 
ter,"  cried  Leslie  Bracebridge  in  return. 

"  Eh,  but  its  puir  shelter  I've  got  the  nicht.  Ye'd 
best  gang  up  the  town  to  Jeems  Leckits.  He'll  hae 
ye  a  heartsomer  welcome  than  a  lane  body  like  me/' 

"  But  it  rains,  and  I  want  shelter  very  much.  It 
matters  not  what  sort." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  34.! 

Here  the  visitor  ventured  to  push  the  door  a  little, 
and  squeezed  himself  through  the  crevice  into  a  low 
and  miserable  room  where  an  old  man  lay  upon  a  pal 
let  of  straw,  such  as  the  Scotch  people  call  a  "  shake 
down." 

"  Come  ben  if  yer  maun,"  piped  the  poor  old  crea 
ture  ;  "  There's  nought  but  the  cobble  for  ye  to  gang 
ower." 

"  The  cobbles  are  far  better  than  the  morass  I  should 
fall  into,  unless  you  will  let  me  in  from  the  night  and 
the  storm,"  answered  Bracebridge  pleasantly.  "But 
are  you  sick,  friend  ?  " 

"  Aye,  aye,"  muttered  the  other  ;  "  Its  an  ill  place 
en'  no  ticht  frae  the  winds  and  rains,  an'  my  puir  auld 
body's  unco  fu'  o  pain.  I  doubt  but  I'll  be  in  the 
deed-thraw  erewhiles." 

"  Are  you  alone  ?  " 

*'  Aye,  sir,  lane  syne  the  morn.  The  leelang  day 
there's  nor  wife  nor  bairn  to  threep  at  me.  I'm 
maistly  driven  to  gang  clean  daft  wi'  the  lonesome- 
ness  o't." 

"  I  am  glad  I  came  in,  then,"  said  the  young  man, 
in  genuine  compassion.  "  You  will  let  me  wait  on 
you  I  hope." 

"  Na— na,"  cried  the  other  fretfully  :  "There's  but 
a  wheen  mair  to  bide  gen  the  bairn  comes  ben.  She 
wad  mak  the  bit  parritch." 

Leslie  Bracebridge  sat  silent  upon  the  broken  chair, 
and  looked  around  the  wretched  place.  It  was  utterly 
barren  of  comforts,  stript  of  necessities. 

"  After  what  are  ye  speerin  i'  the  place,  mister,' 
said  the  Scot  suspiciously,  turning  his  disheveled  head 


342  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

and  staying  for  a  moment  the  roving  of  his  restless 
eyes  ;  "  Be  ye  a  tax  man  come  to  luke  after  the  goods 
folks  ha'  na'  getten  ? " 

"  Indeed  no,"  said  the  Poet  reassuringly  :  "  I  have 
come  to  look  for  the  story  of  Cammerden  Manor  ?  " 

"  Eh  ? — what  ?  "  cries  the  other,  starting  up  on  his 
emaciated  elbow,  which  presently  gave  out  and  let 
him  down  heavily  upon  the  straw,  from  which  his 
foxy  eyes  gleamed  fiercely  : 

"  Who  towd  ye  o'  Cammerden  Manor  ?  " 

"  A  woman  down  the  street,  but  she  did  not  know 
much  more  than  the  name." 

"  Na,"  snarled  the  old  man.  "  She  did  na  ken 
muckle,  truly.  Yon  puir  sackless  boddies  o'  squatters 
hae  got  naething  to  do  wi'  Cammerden  Manor." 

"Somebody  must  know  something  about  it,"  began 
the  visitor,  feeling  his  way  gingerly  along :  "  Perhaps 
you  can  tell  me,  my  friend,  more  than  the  people 
yonder." 

"  Na,  na,  I  tell  ye  I  dinna  threep  at  Cammerden 
Manor.  Waes  me,  but  my  heart  is  sair  to  hear  telt  o' 
that  name!" 

Bracebridge  produced  a  handful  of  small  coin  from 
his  pocket,  and  deposited  it  upon  the  table,  which,  with 
two  broken  chairs  was  all  that  the  hovel  contained. 

"  That  is  to  pay  for  my  lodging,"  he  remarked  ; 
"  and  my  supper  if  you  will  give  me  some.  And  now  if 
you  will  tell  me  your  name,  we  can  have  a  cosy  talk." 

The  old  creature  stared  hungrily  at  the  money. 
Death  was  indeed  upon  him  ;  the  cold  sweat  stood 
already  upon  his  forehead  ;  but  the  greed  of  the  mortal 
was  still  unquenched. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  343 

"  Aweel,  aweel,"  he  muttered  ;  "  I'm  unco  fu'  o' 
years  ;  an'  its  been  mony  a  day  syne  I  hae  seen  the 
like  o'  sae,  muckle  siller.  But  wae's  me  :  It  winna' 
heal  my  greetin  for  the  likes  o'  Cammerden  Manor. 
An  it  canna  keepit  the  deed-thraw  awa." 

"  Are  you  one  of  those  who  lived  there,  then  ?  " 

"  Aind,"  he  cried  :  "  Is  it  ain  ye  ca't  ?  I'm  the  lane, 
mister.  The  ithers  hae  a'  been  flitted  this  twa  score 
year." 

"  Then  you  can  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know." 

Bracebridge  leaned  forward  and  looked  eagerly  at 
the  restless  eyes  that  gleamed  so  keenly  at  him. 

"  I  want  to  know  about  yonder  church  that  has 
fallen  to  decay." 

"  Yon  kirk  !  "  He  sat  up  now,  and  beat  about  the 
wretched  bed  with  his  bony  hands  :  "  Gude  Lord — 
gude  Lord  !  Is't  the  tale  o'  the  kirk  ye  maun  be  get- 
ten  for  siller  ? Na,  then,  mister,  tak'  it  awa' !  I 

warrant  I  winna  tell  that  the  noe,  as  nanekens  but  my 
ain  single  sel.  I  hae  not  telt  that  these  thirty  year 
an'  mair." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  buy  your  confidence,"  said  Leslie 
Bracebridge  quickly,  seeing  that  the  old  man  was 
angry,  and  fearing  he  would  spend  his  still  remaining 
strength  ;  "  But  you  will  tell  me  your  name?  " 

"  Auld  Sandy,  they  ca'  me,"  he  answered,  briefly. 

"  And  who  is  the  bairn  that  will  soon  come  home  ?  " 

"It's  my  bit  grand-dauchter  Bel."  His  thin  face 
brightened  ;  "  She  makes  odd  shillins'  nae  an'  then 
at  wark  amang  ither  folks  as  is  no  fit  to  latchet  her 
shoon." 

The  face  fell  again. 


344  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

Soon  there  was  a  patter  of  small  quick  feet  on  the 
door-sill,  and  presently  a  tidy  little  lass  of  twelve,  or 
thereabouts,  came  quickly  into  the  room,  her  tattered 
shawl  and  hood  dripping  with  rain,  and  a  pretty 
smile  on  her  rather  wan  face. 

"  That  child  has  never  had  enough  to  eat  in  her 
life,"  was  the  visitor's  inward  comment. 

The  old  man  reached  towards  her  feverishly. 

"  Eh,  Bel,  puir  bairn,  here's  a  gentle  as  is  come  to 
bide  the  nicht,  an1  has  getten  a'  that  siller  for  ye,  no 
to  be  owin'  naething  the  whiles." 

The  meager  little  face  flushed  quickly. 

"  Grandfather,"  she  said,  "  We  hae  na  got  a  place 
to  putten  folks  in  as  pays  siller  for  their  keep.'' 

"  Never  mind,  Bel,"  interrupted  the  young  man, 
stifling  a  queer  choking  sensation  in  his  throat.  "  I 
like  your  grandfather,  and  would  rather  be  here  than 
at  the  best  house  in  the  village." 

"  Eh,"  she  said,  quaintly  tossing  her  pretty  head, 
"  There's  nae  ither  house  sae  muckle  better  redd  than 
ours.  Howsoever,  sir,  I  doubt  if  ye  wad  like  to  eaten 
the  parritch  an'  oat-cake  which  is  all  a'  we  hae  the 
nicht.  Happen  I  had  better  tak'  your  siller  to  the 
shop  an'  fetch  ye  sommat  ither." 

Bracebridge  assured  her  that  he  was  most  fond  of 
porridge  ;  and  while  she  was  busy  putting  the  two  or 
three  cups  and  platters  upon  the  rickety  table,  and 
stirring  the  mess  over  a  heap  of  smouldering  moss  she 
was  coaxing  to  burn,  the  grandfather  watched  her 
with  pride,  muttering  as  if  to  himself. 

"  She  were   aye   douce   an'  deftlike.     Her  mither 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  345 

deed  when  she  were  a  wee  bit  lassie  o'  twa  year.  Puir, 
wee,  bonny  Bel  !  " 

The  little  thing  turned  her  eyes  affectionately  upon 
the  old  man.  Even  in  that  poor  hovel,  love  was  not 
unknown. 

"  Hang  me  if  I  wouldn't  like  to  go  out  and  buy 
them  a  supper  of  meats  and  other  viands  that  very 
likely  they've  never  even  seen,"  muttered  Bracebridge, 
"  But  I  doubt  if  there  is  a  shop  where  anything  decent 
can  be  got  in  the  neighborhood." 

After  they  had  eaten  the  frugal  meal,  the  old  man 
with  a  tolerably  good  relish,  the  child  with  a  womanly 
sparingness  which  again  brought  a  lump  to  the 
visitor's  throat,  the  dip  candle  spluttered  in  its  socket, 
and  he  began  to  fear  there  would  be  no  story  that 
night,  even  if  his  singular  host  could  be  induced  to 
part  with  his  choice  secret.  Presently  when  the  child 
had  set  things  to  rights,  she  said  simply : 

"  If  tha  pleases,  sir,  its  but  a  puir  bed  I  hae  getten 
to  offer  ye,  savin  its  tidy." 

And  so  it  was  tidy — the  child's  own  straw  heap  which 
she  had  spread  with  a  clean  linen. 

She  crept  away  into  a  hole  in  the  wall,  which  had 
served  as  a  "  next  room"  in  better  times;  and  soon 
her  fresh  young  voice  was  heard  singing  softly  to 
herself,  while  the  old  man  dozed  fitfully,  and  the  vis 
itor  still  sat  watching  the  carefully  smothered  moss 
fire: 

"  lamfarfrae  my  hame,  an1  I'm  weary  often  whiles 
For  the  langed-for  hame-coming,  a/i'  my  father's  welcome 
smiles^ 


346  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

I'll  ne'er  befit1  contented  until  mine  een  do  see 
The  King  in  his  beauty  in  my  ain  countrie. 
The  earth  is  flecked  w? flowers  many  tinted  bright  and  gay  ; 
The  birdies  warble  blithely  for  my  father  made  them  sac  ; 
But  these  sights  an1  these  sounds  will  as  naething  be  to  me 
When  I  hear  the  ransomed  singing  in  my  ain  countrie." 

The  old  man  joined  in  the  next  verse  without  seem 
ing  to  rouse  up.  The  words  of  the  quaint  sweet  hymn 
fell  upon  the  Poet's  ear  with  a  pathos  he  had  never 
known  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life  ;  while  the  tune 
had  all  of  that  Scotch  plaintiveness  in  it  which  makes 
their  songs  so  dear  to  those  serious  people. 

"  Ii^e  his  gude  word  of  promise  that  some  gladsome  day  the 

King 

To  his  ain  royal  palace,  his  banished  bairn  will  bring  ; 
Wi'  eyes  an'  wi1  heart  rinning  ower  we  shall  see 
TJie  King  in  his  beauty  in  his  ain  countrie. 
My  sins  hae  been  many  an'  my  sorrows  hoe  been  sair, 
But  there  they1  II  never  vex  me,  nor  be  remembered  there  ; 
For  his  bluid  hath  made  me  white,  an*  his  hands  shall  dry 

mine  ee, 
When  he  brings  me  hame  at  last  to  my  ain  countrie." 

"  It  is  their  evening  hymn,"  thought  Bracebridge  ; 
"  They  sing  it  together  from  habit,  out  of  all  this 
'poverty  and  misery." 

Presently  the  old  man  started  from  his  doze,  and 
struggled  to  prop  himself  upon  the  straw  pillow.  He 
gazed  wildly  around  upon  the  flickering  light  of  the 
candle,  and  the  dying  ebb  of  the  fire,  and  then  seemed 
to  listen,  his  cracked  voice  silent  this  time  : 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  347 

"  Like  a  bairn  to  its  mither,  a  wee  birdie  to  its  nest 
Ifatn  wad  be  ganging  noo  unto  my  Saviour's  breast 
For  he  gathers  in  his  bosom  witless  lambs  like  me 
An'  carries  them  himscF  to  his  airi?  countrie. 
He1  s  faith/if  that  has  promised  an"1  he1  II  surely  come  again 
To  keep  his  tryst  wf  me,  at  what  hour  /  dinna  ken, 
But  he  bids  me  still  to  wait  an*  ready  aye  to  be 
To  gang  at  ony  moment  to  my  ain  countrie?' 

"  Puir  Bel,"  he  muttered  ;  "  puir,  witless  lamb.  Aye 
but  it's  gude  that  he's  faithfu'  as  has  promised." 

Then  his  glance  fell  upon  the  young  man  who  sat 
with  bowed  head  and  something  like  a  sob  in  his 
throat.  It  seemed  to  turn  the  current  of  his  thoughts. 

"  Whist  ye,"  he  whispered.  "  Has  the  bairn  gone 
the  noo  ?— eh,  Bel  ?  " 

He  elevated  his  feeble  voice  to  a  shrill  call,  and  the 
child  came  instantly  from  her  den,  having  thrown  her 
ragged  coverlet  about  the  single  garment  she  wore. 
Her  bare  feet  were  clean-washed  and  rosy  on  the 
cobble  floor. 

"  Hand  me  a  dip,  Bel.  The  maister  and  me  will  be 
liken  to  speer  a  bit," 

The  little  one  hesitated.  Very  likely  she  had  but  one 
poor  candle  left,  and  her  thrifty  wisdom  rebelled 
against  such  unseemly  extravagance. 

"  Aye — aye  !  I  ken  it  wilfu'  waste  an'  woefu'  want. 
We've  plenty  o'  the  last,  an  nae  muckle  chance  at 
the  ither.  But  the  gentle  boddy's  siller  behooves  to 
pay  for  a  dip — aye,  an'  for  the  story  likewise.  I  mind 
not  he  bides  in  our  bit  hut  for  the  likes  o'  the  parritch. 
It'll  no  be  mony  licht  that  I  burn  mair,"  he  added 
to  himself. 


348  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

Bracebridge  plucked  up  courage,  and  when  the  little 
maiden  had  fetched  a  fresh  candle,  he  waited  patiently 
for  the  dying  man  to  speak. 

The  rain  fell  heavily,  the  wind  moaned  drearily. 
The  elements  seemed  to  saturate  the  wretched  hut 
with  their  woe.  Even  the  darkness  of  the  night 
seemed  to  gather  and  thicken  with  nameless  terrors 
within  the  room.  The  Poet  watched  the  feeble  light 
with  a  chilly  fascination ;  he  feared  every  instant  that 
it  might  be  obliterated  by  the  palpable  gloom  settling 
heavier  and  heavier  upon  everything.  Outside,  upon 
the  wild  and  solitary  moor,  he  could  not  have  felt 
more  alone. 

A  sickly  hue  of  death  had  crept  over  the  old  man's 
features.  The  place  was  full  of  the  signs  of  coming 
dissolution.  It  seemed  to  the  appalled  watcher  that 
the  very  atmosphere  reeked  with  death. 

At  last  the  poor  soul  came  back  to  consciousness. 

"  Well  noe,"  he  began  presently  ;  "  It's  lang  syne 
word  or  breath  o'  auld  acquaintance  passed  my  lips. 
But  what  wad  ye  hear  about,  mister — mister — " 

"  Bracebridge,"  finished  the  other,  then  added  : 

"  I  should  like  to  learn  how  the  rich  and  aristocratic 
Cammerden  Manor  came  to  be  transformed  into  this 
mean  and  squalid  settlement  without  a  name?" 

"  Hist,  Mister  Bracebridge,  an'  what  for  d'ye  want 
a  name  for  a  parcel  o'  squatters  as  kens  naebody  an 
nabody  winna  be  liken  to  ken.  They're  an  ill-favored 
set,  the  scum  o'  the  country  side,  belike.  We're  no 
in  that  lot,  Bel  an'  me,  praise  God." 

"  You  have  no  friends  here  then  ?  " 

"  Nane,  I  tell  ye — '  though  mebbe  that'll    be  waur 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  349 

for  the  bairn  when  I'm  gane  hame" — he  clutched  the 
fragments  of  coverlet  with  his  pitiful  hands,  and  went 
on  with  an  effort : 

"  After  the  dire  calamities  that  befell  Cammerden 
Manor  mair  than  forty  year  agone,  I  was  left  alain 
here  upo'  the  moors — savin'  the  deserted  houses,  an' 
the  smoking  ruins  o'  Ellerslie,  an'  Bryngowen,  an'  Mel 
ton  Brae,  an'  waur'  nor  a' — the  bonny  kirk.  After 
that,  they  cam  from  ilka  side,  yon  fuil  boddies  as  tuck 
free  holt  o'  the  empty  neuks  deserted  by  the  bonny 
birds  that  had  flitted." 

"  But  what  happened  ? "  cried  the  listener,  observing 
in  alarm  the  filming  eyes  of  the  old  man,  and  his 
wandering  manner. 

"  Its  a  lang  story — maist  like  an  auld  wife's  tale.  I 
doubt  me  ye'll  think  the  threepin'  worth  the  measure 
o'  your  siller.  But  I  maun  mak  it  up  to  ye  in  some 
gate.  Weel — weel !  Cammerden  Manor  were  rightly 
a  weel-to-do  place  and  unco  fair  to  look  upon.  The 
earl  war  a  fine  gentle  an'  lived  like  ony  prince  wi'  his 
great  leddy  an'  their  sons  an'  dochters. 

"  Ane  son  Lord  Percy — I  mind  not  if  he  were  the 
second  or  third,  for  I  was  but  a  lad  mysel'  sixty  year 
agone — he  had  tuck  to  the  Church — no  the  Scottish 
Kirk  but  that  they  call  the  Anglican.  For  they  had 
na  bided  muckle  in  Scotland,  but  had  their  learnin' 
in  Lunnon  which  I  am  persuaded  is  a  place  fu'  o'  a' 
evil. 

"  When  he — Lord  Percy  that  I  speak  of — came 
back,  a  weel-learnt  mon,  an'  sae  religious,  naethingwad 
do  but  the  Earl  maun  build  him  a  kirk — no  that  they 
ca'd  it  a  kirk,  but  I  canna  bide  to  name  strange 


350  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

names  the  noo — nigh  upo'  the  Castie.  The  Castle's 
gone  the  noo,  nae  stane  left  upo'  the  ither ;  aye  an' 
sae  is  maist  o'  the  kirk.  " 

The  old  man  heaved  a  sob.  Outside,  the  wind  and 
rain  made  melancholy  moan.  Then  he  went  on,  not 
without  physical  effort : 

"  The  rich  an  great  families  that  dwelt  round 
about,  they  made  unco  rejoicings  ower  the  new  kirk  ; 
an'  likewise  the  peasantry  that  lived  upo'  the  Earl's 
lands  made  plain  to  want  Lord  Percy  for  their  pastor. 
— I  mind  the  gude  Lord  winna  hae  his  people  fall 
into  priestly  ways,  an'  may-happen  it  were  that  deed 
that  brought  the  calamities  upo'  the  place.  Never 
theless,  aside  frae  this  doubty  teachin',  Lord  Percy 
were  a  godly  man,  an'  sae  also  were  the  Earl.  I  got 
ten  a'  this  frae  my  father,  who  fell  himsel'  into  the 
snare  o'  the  new  thing,  an  war  chosen  to  be  clerk  o' 
the  bonny,  braw  kirk.  I  had  my  upbringin'  in  these 
ways  ;  but  when  confusion  came  upo'  the  place,  I  saw 
that  it  war  a  judgment  against  them.  My  father 
were  calt  Sandy  Meer,  like  myseP  ;  an'  he  were  a  gude 
honest  man  wha'  ne'er  telt  a  lee,  Mister  Bracebridge, 
nor  take't  a  bit  siller  frae  ony  mon  i' charity." 

He  halted  for  breath,  and  his  listener  nodded 
gravely  in  acceptance  of  the  introduction.  He  knew 
that  the  innate  Scotch  pride  rankled  even  here  to  re 
ceive  an  unearned  penny. 

41  Was  Cammerden  Manor  an  old  place  ?  "  he  asked 
puzzled  to  trace  its  apparently  recent  origin. 

"  Na.  na.  It  were  a  new  settlement,  putten  up  like 
a  toy-village  to  please  the  fancy  o'  the  Earl  an'  his 
friends.  They  dwelt  maist  o'  the  year  in  Lunnon,  or 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  351 

Em'bro,  an'  came  to  the  manor  for  their  pleasuring — 
wae's  me  !  I  canna  bide  to  ca'  it  a'  back.  It's  sair — 
sair  !  An'  bonny  Bel — she's  no  my  ain. — But  Lord, 
Lord  !  I  canna  tell  that !  " 

The  old  man  seemed  to  relapse  into  a  wandering 
mood  from  which  he  fell  into  a  stupor.  His  face 
was  so  ashen,  and  his  fallen  jaw  so  ghastly,  that 
Leslie  Bracebridge  felt  for  his  flask  of  brandy  and 
hastened  to  force  some  down  the  gurgling  throat. 

He  revived  a  little  and  began  to  talk  in  a  rambling 
fashion  about  the  Earl  and  bonny  Bel.  At  last  he 
seemed  to  collect  his  wandering  wits,  and  fastening 
his  fading  faculties  upon  his  guest  for  an  instant, 
tried  to  rally  his  forces : 

"  I  were  not  done  wi'  the  tellin',  maister,  but  I  fear 
me  death  hae  grippit  me  hard.  Ye  maun  getten  the 
rest  frae  anither  than  me — how  that  the  bairn  is  no 
my  grand-dauchter  at  a' — " 

"  What  other — who  is  there,  Sandy  ?  " 

The  Poet  felt  the  egotism  of  his  position :  that 
with  a  something  in  the  room  he  dared  not  name,  he 
should  cling  to  his  base  curiosity,  and  trouble  the 
worn-out  spirit  for  its  last  vestige  of  mortal  memory. 

"  He  were  a  gude  mon — Lord  Percy — an'  prechit 
mony  a  year,  wi'  a  luke  i'  his  een  like  his  maister. 
But  the  deil  cam  an'  sowed  tares  in  his  bonny  field. 
It  war  waur  for  him — it  war  waur  for  his  leddy — it 
war  waur  for  a'  !  But  he's  gang — he's  gang — lang 
syne." — The  voice  trailed  feebly  off  into  incoherent 
mutterings. 

"  Is  Lord  Percy  dead  ?  " 

"  Deed  ? — na,  na.     That  war  better  if  he  had  deed. 


352  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

He's  wrang,  they  say,  in   his   head.     He's  tarryin', 
they  say,  ower  the  sea — wae's  me  !  " 

The  old  man  flung  his  gaunt  arms  about,  and  pres 
ently  lay  gasping  in  what  seemed  indeed  the  "  deed- 
thraw.  "  Bracebridge  made  a  desperate  effort  to  re 
vive  him,  calling  meanwhile  for  little  Bel,  who  ran 
sobbing  out  into  the  rain  and  the  darkness  to  fetch 
help. 

He  came  to  for  a  moment  and  asked  for  the  bairn. 

"  She  will  come  presently — with  help.  " 

Auld  Sandy  fixed  his  glazing  eyes  on  the  strange 
face  above  him,  and  said  with  his  struggling  breath : 

"  It's  too  late  the  noo — for  help.  Ye  maun  speer  at 
the  Earl — he  that  was  the  auld  Earl's  son.  He  knows 
a,'  belike." 

"  Where  shall  I  find  him,  Sandy  ?— Who  is  he  ?  " 

For  in  the  chaos  of  the  old  man's  story,  the  Poet 
had  beheld  an  apparition  !  and  the  face  mocked  him 
with  a  smile  that  said  :  "  I  am  the  wraith  you  would 
discover  ! — Follow  me.  " 

There  was  a  sickening  rattle  in  the  dying  man's 
throat:  at  last  he  articulated: 

"  I'  the  auld  Buke  o'  the  kirk — Bel  maun  fetch  it— 
puir,  wee  Bel — "  and  he  spoke  no  more. 

All  that  night  and  the  next  day  he  lay  in  a  stupor. 
Death  fought  hard  for  the  hulk  of  Auld  Sandy ;  and 
the  Scotch  tenacity  of  life  made  the  struggle  a  terri 
ble  one. 

Bracebridge  made  every  effort  to  find  aid  among 
the  wretched  villagers  ;  but  they  hung  back  and  said 
he  was  "  nane  o'  theirs.'' 

"  There's  nae  docther,  nae  preacher,  nae  siller  for 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

a  buryin',  "  sobbed  poor  little  Bel,  her  womanly  cour 
age  forsaking  her. 

Once  the  laboring  soul  came  back  to  the  hither 
edge  of  that  "  sad,  obscure,  sequestered  state  "  upon 
which  it  was  emerging,  and  sighed  brokenly  : 

"  Dinna  greet,  bairn.  There'll  be  summon  to  tak' 
thee  by  the  hond.  " 

A  sudden  impulse  overcame  Leslie  Bracebridge's 
ordinary  self,  and  spoke  for  him  like  an  inspiration  : 

"  Don't  fret  for  Bel,  Sandy.  I  will  take  her  and 
care  for  her.  She  shall  not  be  left  here." 

It  was  wrung  from  him  by  the  old  man's  death 
agony.  A  sudden  light  flickered  over  the  ghastly 
face. 

"  May  happen  the  Earl's  better  nor  I  thoucht 
May  happen  he'll  be  just.  God  guide  thee,  Bel — gang 
wi'  the  gentle  to  Em'bro  ;  gang  to  the  Earl,  an'  teU 
him"- 

But  death  hindered  the  rest. 

Some  queer  spell  was  surely  upon  the  young  man, 
that  he  could  not  have  let  auld  Sandy  die  with  a  heart 
ache  for  his  helpless  little  charge.  Unconsciously 
and  without  a  moment's  warning,  he  realized  that  he 
had  brought  upon  himself  an  incalculable  responsibility. 
Whnt  was  he  to  do  with  it  ?  In  the  midst  of  his  ro 
mantic  vagaries,  his  seeking  after  misty  and  inexplic 
able  things,  he  had  suddenly  come  face  to  face  with  a 
fact  that  he  might  find  difficulty  in.  ridding  himself  of. 
Perhaps  he  had  a  semi-heroic  fancy  that  he  was  making 
mute  atonement  for  his  forced  desertion  of  the  woman, 
Margaret  Blair,  whom  he  had  left  to  eke  out  her  misery 
in  unmitigated  neglect. 


254  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

True  it  is  that  our  lives  are  like  circles,  forever 
touching,  crossing,  interlaced  with  other  lives.  We 
cannot  handle  one  misery  without  a  consciousness  of 
the  terrible  magnetism  which  draws  other  miseries  to 
it.  Leslie  Bracebridge  had  hardened  his  heart  and 
walked  away  from  the  mad-woman's  degradation.  He 
reassured  himself  that  he  had  come  to  seek  the  mysteri 
ous,  and  not  to  save  the  lost.  And  lo !  in  his  path, 
like  the  "  witless  lamb  "  straying  at  dark  upon  the  brink 
of  an  abyss,  he  had  stumbled  upon  little  Bel.  What 
could  he  do  but  snatch  her  in  his  arms  away  from  the 
gaunt  wolf  standing  in  the  doorway,  and  from  that 
other  beast  which  goeth  about  like  a  roaring  lion  to 
prey  upon  helplessness  and  innocence. 

What  he  meant  to  do  with  the  child,  he  did  not 
know.  All  that  he  realized  was  this  ;  she  had  fallen 
Jipon  his  mercy,  and  he  accepted  her  meekly  from 
Providence  as  one  of  those  inexplicable  dispensations 
which  do  not  seem  to  follow  any  particular  misdeed  of 
our  own,  but  evolve  themselves  from  the  circum 
stances  about  us,  very  much  as  our  irresponsible  birth 
js  evolved  from  the  chances  of  our  day  and  generation. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
THE  SECRETARY'S  STORY. 

"  Undoubtedly  it  is  the  end  ; 
Yet  thence  comes  such  confusion  of  what  was 
With  what  will  be, — that  late  seems  long  ago, 
And  what  years  should  bring  round,  already 
'Till even  he  withdraws  into  a  dream 
As  the  rest  do. " 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

"  SHOULD  you  like  me  to  take  you  to  the  Earl,  Bel  ?  " 
She  looked  up  with  that  hopeless  air  so  pathetic  in 
a  child,  and  said  with  a  half  sob: 

"  Ony  place.     I  hae  got  na  hame,  the  noo." 
For  in  the  old  prayer-book,  containing  the  Church 
Service,  which  little  Bel  had  found  for  Leslie  Brace- 
bridge,  he  had  deciphered  these  words  :  "  Sandy  Mcer, 
Clerk  of  the  CJiurch.     Of  the  houseJiold  of  the  Earl  of 

Earnshope,  shire,  Scotland" 

In  another  hand  beneath,  and  in  fresher  ink  was 
scrawled  :  "  16  Tweed  Court,  Dumfries  Street :  Edin- 
boro,  Old  Town." 

As  unaware  as  Bel  herself  what  this  last  address 
might  lead  to,  the  Poet  took  the  homeless  bairn  by 
the  hand  and  brought  her  to  Edinburgh.  If  no  shelter 


356  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

was  offered  the  child,  he  meant  to  find  a  safe  home  for 
her  in  some  asylum. 

When  they  reached  the  quaint  city,  the  lights  were 
twinkling  up  and  down  the  steep  streets  and  dirty 
lanes  of  the  Old  Town.  It  was  a  rainy  night,  and  the 
rock-like  castle  was  obliterated  from  the  murky  sky. 

Bracebridge  left  his  little  charge,  whom  he  had 
fitted  into  decent  clothing  at  the  first  town  where  they 
had  stopped,  in  care  of  a  motherly  looking  landlady, 
the  proprietress  of  a  genteel  inn  he  had  struck  upon 
the  borders  of  the  ancient  quarter  he  sought. 

"  It  will  be  best  for  the  child  if  I  can  find  her  kin  at 
once,"  he  thought,  never  doubting  that  the  address 
would  unearth  somebody  willing  to  take  the  waif  from 
his  hands.  After  some  difficulty  he  found  the  place 
in  Dumfries  Street — an  obscure  and  filthy  tavern, 
where  two  or  three  burly  fellows  were  making  merry 
over  their  grog.  He  was  glad  he  had  not  brought  Bel 
along. 

The  tavern-keeper  was  a  great  brawny  Scotchman, 
whose  speech  the  poet  could  not  understand,  and  who 
failed  likewise  to  comprehend  him,  being  somwhat 
addled  with  whiskey.  At  last  some  faint  inkling  of 
the  stranger's  meaning  dawned  upon  him. 

He  "  knew  nawt  o'  auld  San'ny, "  and  roared  in 
Bracebridge's  face,  when  he  persisted  in  mentioning 
the  homeless  child,  that,  he  had  "  weans  enouch  o'  his 
ain." 

At  last,  in  desperation,  the  young  man  fell  back 
upon  the  name  of  the  Earl  of  Earnshope,  saying  he 
had  been  commissioned  by  the  dying  man  to  bring 
the  little  girl  to  his  lordship.  The  man  stared : 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  357 

"  Weel  noe — what  for  dinnaye  hae  that  ower,  mon  ? 
The  Earl,  is't  ?  Gude  be  wi'  us  !  Ye  maunna  tell  it's 
Sandy  Meer  as  is  deed  !  An'  the  Earl's  grandson  as 
were  spirited  awa'  is  come  to  licht  after  a'.  Bring  the 
bairn  here,  the  nicht  Ther'll  be  siller  to  getten  for 
her  find. — Puir  Sandy  !  he  were  a  brither  o'  my  ain 
mither.  May  hap  the  auld  body  '11  kent  sommat 
as'll  thraw  licht  upo'  the  matter  o'  yer  claverin." 

But  the  old  woman,  when  she  was  fetched,  could 
only  shake  her  palsied  head  as  she  hobbled  about  on 
her  staff,  and  mumble  : 

"  Na — na  :  I  winna  tell't — I  winna  tell't — San'ny 
wad  grupple  me  deed !  It  were  an  awesome  secret. 
An'  he  hae  kepit  the  secret  an  the  child  a'  these 
years.  He  were  unco  full,  I  tell't  him,  an'  daft  like 
to  hae  a  finger  in  sic  a  foul  thing.  An'  noe — he's 
deed  a'  together.  But  ye  maunna  bring  the  wean  here 
We'll  be  putten  i'  the  jail  if  we  getten  the  wean" — 
But  the  man  interrupted  her  harshly,  berating  her  in 
unintelligible  Scotch  for  her  stupidity  in  not  seeing 
that  they  could  make  a  fortune  out  of  the  matter. 

"  In  coorse  it's  nae  the  lad  hissel  "  Mister,  for  that 
were  a  matter  o'  forty  year  ago;  but  its  a  wean  o'  the 
Earl's  grandson  as  auld  Sandy  hid  awa',  I'll  wager  me 
wits  on't.  Sandy  Meer's  been  in  hiding  these  forty  year 
wi'  that  guilty  secret,  an'  ye've  been  diggin'  him  out 
the  day  !  Fetch  the  wean  here,  an'  we'll  look  to  her — 
Na,  howld  yer  tongue  there,  will  ye  ? "  and  he  menaced 
the  old  crone  into  inarticulate  mumblings  ;  for  she  had 
broken  out  afresh,  warning  him  not  to  lay  a  finger 
upon  the  bairn. 

Leslie  Bracebridge   listened    and    reflected.     One 


358  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

thing  was  clear :  these  people  should  never  see  the 
child  :  another — that  the  man  must  not  know  of  his  re 
solve  ;  a  third — the  whereabouts  of  the  Earl's  family 
must  be  ascertained.  It  was  not  into  the  hands  of  a 
superstitious  old  crone  and  a  brutal  lubber  that  he 
meant  to  trust  the  strange  destiny  cast  upon  his 
care. 

"  Very  likely  the  child  is  asleep  by  this  time,"  he 
said  cautiously :  "  I  cannot  bring  her  to  you  to-night. 
To-morrow  morning,  look  for  me. 

"  But  I  should  like  to  see  the  Earl's  place,"  he  added, 
paying  lavishly  for  the  grog  he  had  not  touched :  "  is 
it  hereabouts  ?  I  might  pass  it,  to-night." 

"  Na — na.  Its  nae  i'  the  old  town,  mon.  Its 
ower  by  all  that's  rich  an'  great.  It's  a  canny  place, 
baith  gude  an'  gran  ;  but  I'm  tel't  there's  nae  chick 
nor  childer  to  keep  it  i'  the  family.  Gude  Lard  ! " 
he  cried,  starting  up  and  over-turning  a  chair  noisily 
— "  ef  the  wean  thee  threeps  on  were  a  lad — Gude 
Lard !  but  its  a  wench  tha  says  ?  " 

"  Yes — a  girl ;  but  I  fancy  she  will  not  turn  out  to 
be  the  Earl's  great-granddaughter  after  all.  You've 
got  no  proof,  you  know." 

Bracebridge  spoke  carelessly,  and  sought  to  with 
draw  without  more  parley.  What  he  wished  was  to 
escape  these  people.  The  Scotchman,  now  throughly 
sobered,  detained  him  by  the  button-hole  and  gave 
him  a  shrewd  wink. 

"  Eh,  mon  !  When  I'm  getten  the  siller,  I'll  be  after 
droppin'  thee  a  bit,"  and  he  winked  again,  chuckling 
inwardly.  "  I've  got  proofs  eneouch,  never  fear." 

Bracebridge  assented.     He  must  feign   to   accept 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  359 

the  man's  cunning  as  he  accepted  his  sudden  thee- 
and-thou  familiarity. 

"  I  must  hurry  back  now,"  he  explained,  "  so  as  to 
have  the  child  ready  early  to-morrow.  What  time  are 
you  open  here  ?" 

The  man  laughed  a  coarse  laugh  and  added,  with 
a  coarser  oath,  that  he  would  be  up  betimes.  After 
some  more  suggestions  and  arrangements,  the  Poet 
broke  away,  mentally  thanking  his  lucky  stars  that  he 
had  so  easily  eluded  the  grip  of  the  crafty  Scotchman. 
In  his  own  mind,  he  doubted  the  fragmentary  testi 
mony  in  reference  to  little  Bel's  origin.  It  was  prob 
ably  a  coarse  wile,  suddenly  hit  upon  by  the  low  cun 
ning  of  a  rascal  in  whose  memory  there  lingered 
some  foundation  for  his  fabrication. 

"  I  must  throw  him  off  the  track.  He  must  not 
go  to  the  Earl  until  I  have  settled  the  question  one 
way  or  the  other,"  thought  the  young  man,  conscious 
that  his  limited  capacity  for  artifice  might  fare  badly 
if  matched  against  the  probable  trickiness  of  the 
other. 

"  I  never  could  be  diplomatic,"  he  sighed,  realiz 
ing  that  here  might  be  a  necessity  for  astuteness. 

"  It's  ower  against  the  new  town.  They'll  tak'  you 
the  way  ony  gate, "  the  man  had  said,  and  the  next 
morning  found  Bracebridge  and  the  child  driving 
under  a  huge  stone  gateway  that  led  to  a  massive  and 
somewhat  forbidding  pile  of  granite  architecture  that 
had  many  towers  and  turrets,  with  small  windows 
and  high  battlements. 

Carved  in  stone  upon  the  gateway,  and  also  over 
the  massive  porte-coclitre  where  the  coach  stopped. 


36o  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

was  a  coat-of-arms  of  which  the  writer  took  careful 
note.  It  was  the  original  of  which  a  rough  scrawl 
had  been  made  in  the  prayer-book  he  carried  in  his 
pocket. 

Before  leaving  the  Inn  he  had  despatched  a  mes 
senger  to  No.  1 6,  Tweed  Court,  saying  that  the  child 
seemed  ill,  and  he  had  carried  her  into  the  country 
hoping  to  restore  her  health  before  bringing  her  to 
Dumfries  street.  He  had  then  taken  the  one  cab 
that  the  neighborhood  boasted,  and  driven  to  the  rail 
road  depot ;  from  which,  after  ostentatiously  purchas 
ing  two  tickets,  and  passing  with  a  handful  of  passen 
gers  into  the  back  of  the  station,  he  had  wheeled 
around  and  jumped  into  a  coach  which  drove  them 
out  by  the  way  of  the  rear  entrance. 

Priding  himself  greatly  upon  having  thus  circum 
vented  for  a  time  a  shrewder  creature  than  himself, 
he  awaited  complacently  the  next  emergency.  The 
affair  was  beginning  to  smack  of  a  romance,  and  he 
was  quite  pleased  to  have  given  rein  to  a  rash  impulse 
in  adopting  the  misfortunes  of  an  unknown  child. 

When  the  great  door  swung  back  upon  its  hinges 
he  bethought  himself  to  ask  for  the  Earl's  private 
secretary,  making  a  bold  move  towards  the  appear 
ance  of  business.  He  had  left  the  child  in  the  gate 
keeper's  lodge,  with  orders  that  she  was  upon  no  ac 
count  to  quit  the  place,  and  was  himself  shown  into  a 
small  but  richly  fitted-up  office  on  the  left  of  the  great 
hall.  He  had  barely  time  in  crossing  this  bit  of  the 
hall  to  notice  that  it  was  magnificently  adorned  with 
pieces  of  sculpture,  figures  in  bronze,  and  suits  of 
rare  old  armor,  when  upon  the  threshold  of  the  small 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  361 

apartment  he  was  met  by  a  florid,  middle-aged  man 
with  the  conventional  sandy  hair  of  Scotland,  who 
bowed  awkwardly,  and  after  seating  his  guest,  waited 
with  national  imperturbableness  to  learn  his  business. 

"  I  wish  to  make  some  inquiries, "  began  Brace- 
bridge,  triumphing  over  the  secretary's  awkwardness, 
"  in  reference  to  the  old  estate,  which  belonged  to  the 
father  of  the  present  Earl  of  Earnshope,  and  was 
called  Cammerden  Manor.  " 

The  secretary  stared  as  well  he  might : 

"  And  what  may  be  your  business  with  my  lord's 
possessions  ?" 

"  My  business  is  chiefly  with  his  family,  "  replied 
the  Poet  with  significant  emphasis.  He  was  deter 
mined  to  carry  out  this  matter  with  a  high  hand,  and 
not  suffer  the  abasement  he  had  endured  at  the  hands 
of  Sir  Roderic  Clarkson. 

The  secretary  stared  on. 

"  I  have  come  from  the  death-bed  ot  an  old  man, — 
one  Sandy  Meer — who  was  a  retainer  of  the  late 
Earl's,  in  his  youth  ;  whose  father  was  clerk  of  the 
Church  built  by  my  Lord  of  Earnshope  for  his  son> 
Lord  Percy  Cammerden." 

"Well?'" 

The  interrogation  was  barely  removed  in  pronuncia 
tion,  and  not  at  all  in  intonation,  from  the  broad  Scotch 
"  weel,  "  but  it  had  a  particularly  insolent  sound  to 
the  young  man's  acute  ears.  He  reflected  that  there 
was  nothing  which  could  aid  him  but  sheer  boldness, 
and  the  utmost  stretch  of  the  imagination  upon  points 
hinted  at  by  the  inhabitants  of  No.  16,  Tweed  Court. 

"It  is  from  what  I   gathered  from   this  old   man, 


362  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

— and  others, — that  I  have  been  able  to  trace  out  a 
singular  clew  to  a  half-forgotten  mystery  in  the  Earl's 
family.  " 

"  Well.  " 

"  Are  you  aware  of  any  such  mystery  ?  " 

A  pig-headed  look  came  into  the  secretary's  face : 

"Those  are  matters  we  never  speak  of  in  the 
household  of  the  present  Earl.  " 

Leslie  Bracebridge's  heart  gave  a  bound.  The 
stupidity  of  the  other  was  making  admissions  that 
could  never  have  been  wrung  from  his  obstinacy. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  never  heard 
reference  made  to  a  grandson  of  my  lord  of  Earns- 
hope — the  late  Earl — who  was  living  in  exile — in  ob 
scurity  ? " 

'•  I  said  nothing  about  it.  It's  not  my  business,  " 
answered  the  man  stolidly. 

Bracebridge  made  a  still  wilder  dash  at  the  coveted 
discovery. 

"  I  am  possessed  of  facts  which  would  be  of  great 
interest  to  the  present  Earl  of  Earnshope.  I  have 
discovered  traces  of  a  child  who  is  probably  the  only 
heir  to  this  great  name.  " 

"  What  do  you  want  for  them  ?"  asked  the  other 
with  a  grim  sneer. 

"I  want justice — restitution! 

The  Poet  brought  his  hand  down  heavily  upon  the 
mahogany  desk  at  which  the  other  sat  ;  and  the  two 
men  contemplated  each  other  in  a  certain  cat-on-the- 
roof  fashion. 

"  Where's  the  child  ?  " 

"  Safe." 


THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE.  363 

"  What  do  you  know  about  him." 

"  I  know  the  child  to  be  the  direct  descendant  of 
Lord  Percy  Cammerden." 

"  Prove  it." 

The  secretary's  color  had  risen  ;  and  he  himself  rose 
and  confronted  his  visitor  menacingly. 

"  I  will  ; — provided  you  verify  certain  statements 
which  I  shall  proceed  to  make  in  reference  to  Cam 
merden  Manor. 

"  Well." 

"  After  Lord  Percy,  second  son  of  the  then  Earl  of 
Earnshope,  took  orders  in  the  Anglican  church,  his 
father  built  him  a  church  and  gave  him  a  living  upon 
certain  estates  of  his  which  were  in  the  border 
country,  and  which  went  by  the  name  of  Cammerden 
Manor." 

"Well." 

"  You  are  to  affirm  or  deny  my  statements,  if  you 
please." 

"  Na — I'll  do  nought  o'  the  kind,"  cried  the  other 
dropping  into  the  Scotch  as  his  ire  rose ;  "you've  not 
proved  that  you  are  a  man  with  a  right  to  make  a  claim 
like  that." 

"Oh — very  well,"  said  Bracebridge,  feigning  to 
rise  : 

"  There  are  others  who  will  not  mind  profiting  by 
the  information  I  was  willing  to  give  you  gratis.  I 
shall  see  a  solicitor  in  town." 

And  he  made  a  movement  as  if  to  depart.  He  had 
studied  human  nature  to  some  effect,  lately. 

The  Scotchman  wrestled  with  his  devil  a  moment, 
and  the  latter  prevailed  : 


364  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  If  it's  no  offense  to  my  Lord  or  my  Lady,"  he 
began  cautiously,  "  there'll  be  no  harm  I  fancy  in 
my  giving  the  yea  or  nay  to  your  story.  But  it's  little 
I  know  of  Cammerden  Manor.  I've  not  heard  the 
name,  only  remotely,  this  many  a  year." 

"  Cammerden  Manor  was  destroyed — principally  by 
fire — forty  years  ago,"  said  the  Poet  impressively. 
He  knew  so  little,  (if  he  may  be  said  to  have  known 
anything  absolutely)  that  he  had  to  make  the  most  of 
each  point.  Presently,  when  he  had  secured  the 
stealthy  interest  of  the  secretary,  he  meant  to  make 
him  finish  the  story. 

At  this  moment,  Leslie  Bracebridge  had  entirely 
lost  sight  of  John  Wallace.  The  man  and  his  "old 
woe  "  had  faded  before  the  present  perplexity  which 
enveloped  the  "  witless  lamb  "  he  had  found  upon  the 
waste. 

"  Yes — it  was  destroyed — principally  by  fire,"  as 
sented  the  Scotchman  cautiously. 

"  But  there  was  another  misfortune  which  befell  the 

family," Bracebridge  was  feeling  his  dangerous 

way "about  the  same  time." 

"Well,"  relapsing  into  something  of  the  former 
stolidity. 

"  It  was  the  disgrace  which  came  upon  Lord  Percy, 
and  caused  his  disappearance  from  Scotland." 

Here  the  visitor's  ground  grew  unsafe.  The  next 
step  might  betray  his  ignorance.  He  paused  ;  but  the 
Scotchman  showed  no  signs  of  taking  up  the  thread 
of  the  narrative.  At  last  he  leaned  forward  and  laying 
his  hand  upon  the  elder  man's  arm,  whispered  with 
slow  emphasis  : 


777,5  SHADOW  OF  JOHN'  WALLACE.  365 

"  What became— of— the — child  ? " 

The  secretary  started,  for  the  portentous  manner  of 
the  other  was  not  lost  upon  him.  The  present  Earl, 
he  knew  was  the  youngest  son  by  many  years.  The 
Lord  Percy  who  had  disappeared  was  the  second  son, 
and  the  rightful  successor,  when  the  oldest  son  died 
childless,  to  the  title  and  estates  of  Earnshope.  His 
disappearance  had  for  so  long  a  period  been  accepted 
as  final,  that  the  present  Earl  had  come  through  a  suc 
cession  of  deaths,  to  his  possessions  without  a  question. 

The  two  men  regarded  each  other  fixedly — the  one 
with  a  startled  endeavor  to  learn  how  much  his  oppo 
nent  knew — the  other  with  a  keen  resolve  to  abstract 
something  more. 

"  Of  course,"  hazarded  the  Poet,  "  you  know  that 
this  child  was  a  boy  ? " 

The  secretary  nodded. 

"  And  that  he  was  consigned  to — oblivion,  and  kept 
in  ignorance  of  his  birth  and  ancestry  ?" 

The  secretary  nodded  again. 

("  Lord,  I  thank  thee  that  I  am  not  as  stupid  as  this 
clown,"  mentally  apostrophized  Leslie  Bracebridge, 
figuratively  casting  up  his  eyes.  The  man  had  com 
mitted  himself.  The  ground  grew  safer.) 

"  Can  you  explain  to  me  any  just  reason  why  that 
child  should  have  been  disinherited,  robbed  of  his 
name  and  position,  defrauded  "- 

"  Hold,  man  ! "  cried  the  secretary,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper :  "  I  will  tell  you  why  that  child  had  no 
claim  upon  the  estates  of  Earnshope,  and  why  he  was 
best  kept  in  ignorance  of  his  antecedents.  He  was  not 
the  son  of  Lord  Percy  Cammerden" 


366  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

The  Poet's  eyes  sparkled.  He  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  breathing  a  devout  "  at  last !  "  in  the  depths  of 
his  soul.  After  all  his  floundering,  something  had 
floated  to  the  surface  of  the  murky  waters  he  had 
dragged,  and  he  grasped  it. 

All  that  the  secretary  perceived  was  that  his  visitor 
assumed  a  confident,  almost  aggressive  bearing,  and 
that  he  said  defiantly : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  that  fact  was  never  proved." 

"  Proved — proved  !  "  cried  the  other  excitedly  "  was 
it  not  proved  to  Lord  Percy's  misery  that  his  wife  was 
faithless,  that  she  was  no  better  than  an  adultress — 
and  him  on  the  verge  of  being  raised  to  the  Episco 
pacy  ?  Do  you  suppose  it  was  not  proved  to  him 
before  he  threw  up  everything  and  disappeared " 

"To  America." 

Bracebridge  spoke  in  a  suppressed  tone.  The  dis 
coveries  that  were  pouring  upon  him  had  an  over 
whelming  effect  ;  but  he  preserved  his  acuteness. 

"  To  America  ? — Yes,  and  no.  How  should  I  know  ? 
A  man  who  wishes  to  be  dead  to  all  the  world  doesn't 
usually  leave  his  address  behind  him." 

"  The  man  is  dead." 

The  Scotchman  jumped  up  and  began  pacing  the 
little  office.  Then  he  paused  in  front  of  his  guest 
whe  sat  calm  and  unmoved,  waiting  for  further  develop 
ments. 

"  How  in  the  name  of did  you  get  hold  of  all  this 

information  ? " 

"Partly  through  your  imbecility,"  replied  the  Poet 
within  : 

"  From  several  sources,"  answered  the  Poet  without- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  367 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  said  the  secretary  impatient 
ly,  somewhat  recovering  himself  :  "  Lord  Percy  must 
have  long  since  died.  He  was  not  a  young  man  when 
it  all  happened." 

"  He  was  fifty  years  of  age  when  he  went  to  the 
States.  He  lived  to  be  upwards  of  eighty,"  remarked 
Bracebridge  oracularly. 

"  And — you  are  an  American,  I  fancy  ?  " 

Bracebridge  assented. 

"  And  you  know  that  this  illegitimate  son  is  living  ? " 

"  He  is  not  living.  He  died  in  obscurity  and 
poverty.  But  please  recollect  that  I  do  not  endorse 
the  illegitimacy." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it, — after  all 
these  years — when  everybody  concerned  is  gone  to 
dust  ?  "  The  secretary  spoke  with  a  sneer. 

"Everybody  is  not  gone  to  dust.  The  son,  who 
was  robbed  of  his  heritage  has  left  a  child — who  is  to 
be  righted." 

"  Good  God,"  cried  the  Scotchman,  a  pallor  forcing 
itself  over  his  ribicund  complexion  :  "  Is't  a  boy  ?  " 

But  Bracebridge  had  no  idea  of  weakening  the  effect 
of  his  revelations  by  admitting  the  sex  of  his  protege*. 

"  The  child,"  he  answered  with  dignity,  "  is  here — in 
Edinburgh — in  my  custody.  The  old  man  who  suc 
ceeded  his  father  in  concealing  the  child — as  the  father 
had  concealed  Lord  Percy's  son, — is  dead.  He  died 
leaving  the  child  to  me.  I  have  come  here  to  con 
front  the  family  with  this  wronged  creature." 

Something  very  like  a  shiver  went  through  the 
Scotchman's  frame  : 

iCr'1  will  never  recognize  him ;  my  Lord  will 


368  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

be  able  to  prove  it  all  a  fraud,"  he  began  feebly.  Then 
he  broke  off,  and  sat  drumming  upon  the  table  with 
nervous  ringers.  Presently  he  recommenced,  speak 
ing  hurriedly,  with  a  furtive  glance  at  the  door  : 

"  You  had  better  leave  this  matter  tome.  You  had 
best  not  anger  my  Lord  with  thrusting  an  ugly 
possibility  upon  him,  when  it  is  too  late  to  do  any 
thing  to  rectify  any  mistakes " 

"  Pardon  me.  There  was  no  mistake.  It  was  a 
terrible  wrong.  Lord  Percy  went  into  voluntary  exile 
because  he  felt  himself  to  be  a  disgraced  man.  That 
did  not  disinherit  his  son." 

Bracebridge  actually  began  to  assume  the  role  of  a 
philanthropist  who  only  desires  disinterestedly  to 
right  the  evils  within  his  reach. 

"  But — but — "  stammered  the  bewildered  secretary, 
"  don't  you  see  that  if  it  had  been  Lord  Percy's  son 
that  was  to  be  born,  he  wouldn't  have  been  disgraced, 
he  wouldn't  have  left  his  wife — he  wouldn't  have 
given  up  the  honors  offered  him — he " 

"  Allow  me  to  interrupt  you,"  the  Poet  said  calmly, 
"what  honors  do  you  refer  to  ?" 

"  Why  the  honors  offered  by  the  Anglican  church, 
man  !  They  would  have  made  a  Lord  Bishop  of  him 
the  very  day  he  disappeared.  It  nearly  broke  the  old 
Earl's  heart.  He  had  had  a  fine  ring  made,  with  the 
Bishop's  seal  upon  it,  and  was  proud  enough  when  he 
gave  it  to  Lord  Percy  that  very  week.  I'm  told  that 
the  ring  was  the  only  article  of  value  the  unhappy  man 
took  with  him." 

Leslie  Bracebridge  drew  a  quick  breath  or  two. 
He  saw  John  Wallace  rise  once  more  before  him, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  369 

He  remembered  the  seal  ring,  and  the  widow's 
hesitating  remark  that  the  design  resembled  a  cipher 
of  some  sort  rather  than  a  coat-of-arms. 

"  What  became  of  Lord  Percy's  wife  ?  " 

"  Gude  God,  man !  As  if  I  knew !  All  I  have 
gathered  is  that  he  married  when  he  was  about  forty 
a  young  girl  of  seventeen,  and  that  they  had  no 
children.  My  Lady  was  not  a  daughter  of  one  of  the 
noble  families,  not  even  a  lady  of  the  aristocracy,  but 
was  from  some  unknown  parts,  and  had,  I've  heard 
the  old  servants  say,  a  wild  and  headstrong  look.  They 
even  chatter,"  here  the  Scotchman's  voice  fell  still 
lower — "about  gipsy  blood,  and  say  that  my  Lord 
got  her  from  the  border  country  :  that  he  was  be 
witched,  in  fact ;  but  that's  only  the  talk  o'  the  ignor 
ant." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  point.  The  lady 
was  Lord  Percy's  wedded  wife,  and  the  son  when  he 
came,  was  their  lawful  child." 

"  Wait,"  cried  the  other  feverishly.  "  Let  me  prove 
the  contrary  to  you.  For  God's  sake  don't  go  to  the 
Earl  with  that  old  story.  Let  me  tell  you  how  it  all 
came  about.  After  they  had  been  married  some  years 
there  came  to  Cammerden  Manor,  which  I  have  heard 
was  a  wonderful  place  for  learning  and  intellect,  and 
had  the  finest  society  in  all  Scotland — and  yet  was  a 
frivolous  place,  new  and  showy,  and  full  of  gay  doings 
without  knowledge  of  the  stern  virtue  of  the  kirk" — 
(  The  secretary  evidently  disapproved  of  rank  Angli 
cans)  "  but,"  he  added,  "  tempered  by  the  pure  good 
ness  and  kind  works  of  Lord  Percy  himself,  who  was 
a  God-fearing  man,  there  came  to  Cammerden  Manor 


370  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

a  young  man  who  said  he  had  a  new  gospel  of  some 
sort  ;  a  new  revelation,  he  called  it,  abounding  in 
strange  sounding  phrases,  and  marvelously  deep  ex 
planations  of  very  simple  Bible  truths." 

The  Scotchman  paused  for  breath.  His  taciturnity 
had  died  hard,  and  he  was  palpably  not  given  to  talk 
ing  in  paragraphs. 

"  WeH,"  he  went  on  reluctantly,  as  his  visitor  still 
preserved  the  demeanor  of  one  unconvinced  ;  "  Well, 
Lord  Percy's  young  wife  was  dazzled.  I've  heard  it 
said  that  she  had  a  fine  mind  and  was  much  pleased 
to  hear  the  profound  and  difficult  meanings  that  were 
put  upon  the  gospel  truth — you  know  the  rest  ?  " 

"  I  know  what  is  alleged,  but  I  contend  that  Lord 
Percy  was  deceived — duped  by  those  who  wished  to 
rid  themselves  of  him." 

It  was  a  daring  assertion,  intended  to  tempt  a 
longer  recital. 

The  other  jumped  up,  and  began  fuming  about  the 
room  in  desperation. 

"  Deceived — Duped  !  Good  God  !  Lord  Percy  had 
not  an  enemy  in  the  world.  His  family  worshipped 
him ;  his  people  made  an  idol  of  him,  it  broke  the  old 
Earl's  heart  when  he  went  away.  It  broke  his  brother's 
heart,  who  was  feeble  and  set  a  great  store  by  him  ; 
it  broke  up  the  community,  the  rich  people  left  the 
place  ;  the  church,  they  said  was  haunted  and  fell  to 
ruin  ;  the  people  who  lived  there  upon  his  bounty, 
scattered  and  fled,  and  some,  they  say,  went  mad  and 
set  fire  to  the  town 

"  Stop,"  commanded  the  Poet,  "  There  was  one  thing 
they  failed  to  do.  W/iy  did  they  not  find  Lord  Percy  ?  " 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  37  r 

"  Find  Lord  Percy,"  echoed  the  brow-beaten  man — 
"  find  him  ?  Do  you  suppose  they  didn't  ransack 
England,  and  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  and  the  Conti 
nent,  too,  for  the  matter  o'  that?  Do  you  suppose 
they  didn't  send  to  India,  and  to  your  America?  But 
what  could  they  do  ? — he  was  gone.  I  believe,  for 
my  part,  that  he  jumped  into  the  sea.  I  will  not  be 
lieve  that  he  lived  to  be  upwards  of  eighty." 

"  That  is  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Bracebridge 
with  a  gesture  of  disdain.  "  Go  on  and  prove  to  me 
that  the  child  was  illegitimate." 

"  My  lady  told  it  herself"  cried  the  other,  warming 
to  his  subject.  "  She  was  led  away  more  and  more 
by  the  young  preacher,  who  presently  began  to  say  to 
her  that  her  husband  was  not  enlightened  as  to  the 
new  revelations  which  had  been  given  to  the  world  J 
that  he  was  old  in  his  way  of  thinking,  and  narrow  in 
his  way  of  preaching  ;  that  he  could  not  comprehend 
the  things  of  the  spirit ;  but  that  somehow,  they — My 
Lady  and  the  young  adventurer — could  form  a  mys 
terious  sort  of  union  which  made  two  people  one  in 
spite  of  their  earthly  estate — in  a  spiritual  fashion — 
you  understand,  only  I  do  not  recollect  all  the  argu 
ments  which  were  used. 

"  My  Lady  it  seems,  had  never  rightly  loved  her 
husband,  who  nevertheless  adored  her  with  his  whole 
strength.  She  was  weak,  and  easily  persuaded  that 
she  owed  it  to  some  new  light  within  her  to  leave  Lord 
Percy  and  join  herself  to  the  other  man.  It  made  a 
great  scandal,  but  Lord  Percy  would  not  believe  it. 
He  declared  that  she  was  partly  deranged,  and  brought 
her  back,  and  treated  her  like  a  little  child  who  has 


372  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

wished  to  do  wrong,  but  whom  he  loved  too  well  to 
punish.  And  as  no  man  in  the  country  stood  higher 
than  Lord  Percy,  or  was  more  beloved,  the  world  made 
out  to  believe  as  he  believed. 

"  It  went  on  for  a  matter  of  three  years,  after  which 
she  seemed  to  be  reconciled  to  her  husband,  and 
finally  to  have  forgotten  all  about  the  tempter  whom  the 
Earl  caused  to  be  removed  from  Cammerden  Manor. 
During  this  time  they  were  preparing  to  make  Lord 
Percy  the  Bishop  of  Edinburgh  :  for  he  was  known 
throughout  all  Scotland  and  England,  too,  for  his 
great  wisdom  and  piety.  But  he  had  refused,  saying 
there  could  be  no  questions  such  as  had  disturbed 
his  fireside  brought  into  the  family  of  a  Vicar  of  the 
Church.  When,  however,  my  Lady  seemed  changed, 
he — who  could  think  ill  of  no  creature,  least  of  all  the 
wife  he  loved,  never  dreaming  that  she  was  deceiving 
him  and  undermining  him — he  accepted,  and  the  day 
for  the  consecration  was  fixed." 

The  Poet  was  watching  the  speaker  intently,  and 
as  he  paused  for  breath,  made  a  slight  movement 
with  his  hand  to  bid  him  continue. 

"  It  may  be  that  her  conscience  smote  her  so  sorely 
that  she  could  no  longer  deceive  so  good  and  noble  a 
man.  At  any  rate,  when  the  time  drew  near  my 
Lady  had  fled  from  Cammerden  Manor — with  the 
wicked  creature  who  had  tempted  her  to  her  ruin. 
She  left  a  confession,  saying  that  the  child  about  to 
be  born  was  not  the  child  of  Lord  Percy,  and  that  she 
could  no  longer  conceal  from  him  that  she  had  been 
visited  often  and  secretly  by  the  young  man — whose 
name  I  forget — and  that  she  could  not  endure  to  give 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN'  WALLACE.  373 

birth  under  her  husband's  roof  to  a  child  not  his  own. 
She  was  wild,  she  wrote,  with  grief  and  remorse ;  but 
it  was  irrevocable. 

"  From  the  hour  she  left,  Lord  Percy  never  lifted 
his  head.  He  had  borne  her  infatuation  like  a  hero 
— like  a  martyr  ;  only  seeking  gently  to  open  her  eyes 
to  her  wanderings,  not  believing,  pure  and  innocent 
man,  where  they  would  lead  her.  But  when  he  knew 
all,  when  he  realized  the  perfidy  of  his  wife,  it  seemed 
that  his  world  had  come  to  an  end.  They  could  not 
rouse  him  ;  he  went  about  with  his  eyes  to  the  ground, 
taking  a  last  farewell  of  everything  and  making  what 
arrangements  he  could  for  the  good  of  his  parish  and 
the  poor  of  his  flock.  Then  he  disappeared — to 
India,  the  old  Earl  always  believed  ;  but  it  was  to 
America,  you  say  ?  " 

"Yes — to  America,"  answered  the  Poet,  from  a 
strong  inward  conviction  that  he  had  laid  his  hand, 
unwittingly,  upon  the  substance  whose  Shadow  he  had 
so  long  and  vainly  chased.  For  the  moment,  all  the 
researches  of  the  past  looked  like  vain  imaginations. 
John  Wallace  stood  confessed,  with  bent  head  and 
eyes  to  the  ground.  This  time  ths  apparition  had  a 
personality  that  was  like  veritable  flesh  and  blood. 
He  was  clothed  in  the  vestments  of  the  Church ; 
upon  his  finger  was  the  ring  Annie  Hatherton  had 
known  ;  his  hand  held  thoughtfully  a  little  ivory- 
covered  prayer-book.  Leslie  Bracebridge  wondered 
in  swift  contempt  how  the  misty  figure  of  Robert 
Keith,  in  his  judicial  robe  and  wig,  could  have  allured 
him  :  and  still  more,  what  there  had  been  in  the  bare 


374  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

outline  of  John  Wallace  Monteith,  beyond  the  name, 
to  tempt  his  foolish  fancy. 

A  sentence  of  the  widow  Hatherton,  about  "  a  high 
dignitary  in  the  Church,"  came  back  to  him,  as  for 
gotten  things  will,  in  an  emergency.  Across  the 
gulf  of  time  and  well-nigh  oblivion,  the  phantom  sud 
denly  became  a  luminous  presence,  not  unlike  the 
glorified  vision  once  manifested  to  Annie  Castlewood. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

LOW   LIFE    AND    HIGH    LIFE. 

**  Airs  a  clear  rede  and  no  more  riddle  now. 
Truth  nowhere  lies  yet  everywhere  in  these — 
Not  absolutely  in  a  portion,  yet 
tivolvable  from  the  whole :  evolved  at  last 
Painfully,  held  tenaciously  by  me. 
Therefore  there  is  not  any  doubt  to  clear 
When  I  shall  write  the  brief  word  presently.  " 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

THE  Poet  rose  and  paced  the  floor  meditatively- 
He  was  exalted,  exuberant,  but  most  of  all,  he  was 
overwhelmed.  Now  that  he  had  found  the  man  he 
sought,  he  feared  him.  He  feared  too,  the  entangle 
ment  into  which  he  had  walked  blindly. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  convinced  now  that  the  child 
was  illegitimate,  "  sneered  the  secretary,  eyeing  him 
nervously. 

"  What  became  of  Lord  Percy's  wife — ultimately  ?" 
queried  Bracebridge  for  response. 

"  She  came  back  after  a  year  or  two  I  believe, 
penitent,  wretched, — more  like  a  wild  woman  than  a 
sane  lady.  When  she  learned  his  fate,  she  went  mad 
for  a  spell ;  then — for  they  bore  with  her  for  Lord 
Percy's  sake — she  went  away,  declaring  that  she 


376  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

would  seek  him  over  the  earth  until  she  found  him 
and  got  his  forgiveness.  Poor  wretch  !  She  had 
that  all  along;  but  my  lord  was  dazed,  like,  and  many 
thought  he  had  lost  his  senses  :  to  go  away  and  hide 
his  shame  like  any  common  man. " 

"And  what  did  she  do  with  the  child  ?'' 

"  The  preacher's  brat  ? — What  matters  it  ?  Could 
a  bastard  be  anything  to  the  Earl  of  Earnshope  ?  " 

"  The  child  was  never  proved  a  bastard,"  insisted 
the  Poet  obstinately  :  "  The  woman  was  very  likely 
out  of  her  head  when  she  made  that  declaration.  " 

"  Mad  or  not,  they  say  she  turned  witch,  and 
haunts  the  neighborhood  of  Cammerden  Manor.  None 
of  the  Earl's  family  has  ever  gone  back  to  look  at  the 
place.  All  the  rich  and  great  people  fled  from  it 
as  from  a  plague.  They  say " 

"  I  know — I  know,"  interrupted  Bracebridge  impa 
tiently  ;  he  could  now  take  up  the  thread  of  the  story, 
and  hastened  to  do  so.  "  It  is  a  haunt  for  beggars 
and  thieves.  Some  one  ought  to  reclaim  the  property. 
It  belongs — as  everything  else  does — to  the  child  who 
has  been  defrauded  and  degraded.  " 

"  You  still  adhere  to  that  fiction  ?  "  The  secretary's 
face  was  flushed  and  angry.  He  had  soared  above 
his  usual  plane  to  tell  the  narrative  and  had  done  it 
well. 

•'  I  shall  do  so  until  I  get  more  convincing  proofs 
to  the  contrary  than  any  you  have  given  me.  " 

"  What  right  have  you — what  interest  ? "  cried  the 
wretched  man. 

"The  interest  of  humanity."  The  Poet  actually 
believed  himself.  The  secretary  leaned  forward  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  377 

touched  his  arm,  with  a  furtive  glance  to  right  and 
left  : 

"  Let  me  beg  you  not  to  anger  my  lord  by  interfer 
ing  as  a  stranger  in  his  affairs.  Leave  me  to  hint  a 
thing  or  two  to  him,  and  then — then — if  there's 
money  to  pay  for  silence, — and  all  that, — why  I'll  see 
that  you  get  your  share.  " 

Bracebridge  recoiled.  The  low  greed  of  the  tavern- 
keeper  in  Tweed  Court  had  seemed  a  natural  out 
growth  of  his  breeding  and  surroundings.  But  that 
this  middle-aged  and  respectable  man,  the  trusted  in 
strument  of  a  probably  high-toned  and  noble  master, 
should  make  to  him  a  proposition  so  utterly  devoid  of 
ingenuousness  and  good-faith,  staggered  him. 

He  had  contemplated  the  cause  in  the  light  of  a 
discovery,  and  undertaken  to  follow  it  up  experiment 
ally,  as  one  might  follow  out  the  plot  of  an  unwritten 
story.  Mercenary  motives  had  never  occurred  to 
him ;  still  less  had  he  considered  that  he  might  be  in 
volving  himself  in  a  matter  more  delicate  than 
straight-forward.  Even  his  note-book  was  forgotten. 

"  It  serves  me  right  for  my  double-faced  way  of  as 
suming  to  know  what  I  subsequently  wrung  from 
this  unwise  steward,  "  he  muttered. 

Clearly  the  man  was  not  to  be  trusted. 

"  I  will  throw  him  off,  as  I  threw  off  Tweed  Court. 
Whatever  comes  of  it  I  will  take  the  child  to  the 
Earl  myself,  and  then  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole 
business.  They  may  right  her  or  wrong  her  as  they 
choose.  Certainly  they  will  not  ill-treat  her :  But 
first — first — I  must  ascertain  if  this  banished  lord  be 
indeed  the  melancholy  ghost  who  sat  aloof  from  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

stir  of  actual  life  in  a  far,  alien  town,  beholding  and 
not  participating  in  the  ways  of  men.  " 

Then  he  offered  the  secretary  his  hand  in  parting. 

"  I  am  glad  we  have  come  to  an  understanding, 
Mr.— Mr.— " 

"  Hotchkiss,  "  supplied  the  other  eagerly,  produc 
ing  a  card  ;  "  and  by  the  way,  sir,  you  have  not  men 
tioned  your  name." 

"  So  I  have  not — allow  me.  "  and  the  visitor  wrote 
'  Henry  Smith  '  glibly  upon  the  card,  appending  the 
address  of  the  modest  Inn  where  he  had  put  up  with 
the  child,  on  his  arrival  at  Edinburgh. 

"  If  you  will  call  at  this  place  to-morrow  morning, 
Mr.  Hotchkiss,  we  can  talk  over  the  matter  more 
fully.  " 

"  I  must  get  him  out  of  the  way  when  I  come  here, 
to-morrow,  "  Bracebridge  had  concluded  rapidly. 

"  Thank  you  ;  at  what  hour  shall  I  come  ?  " 

"  Early  :  at  eleven  o'clock.  " 

And  after  more  thanks  and  adieus,  the  two  parted, 
the  secretary  politely  escorting  his  guest  to  the  door 
and  handing  him  a  card  upon  which  he  had  written  a 
line  which  he  said  would  admit  him  without  words. 

Leslie  Bracebridge  trod  on  air. 

"  It  is  John  Wallace  himself,"  he  cried  in  breathless 
exultation  :  and  yet  the  story  of  Robert  Keith  came 
surging  back  upon  him  while  he  said  it  "  I  will  go 
at  once  to  Mr.  Roderic  Clarkson.  I  will  follow  him 
to  Brighton,"  he  mentally  vowed.  In  the  meanwhile, 
the  present  side-issue  must  be  settled.  When  they 
had  driven  away  from  the  narrow  and  noisy  streets 
of  the  Old  Town,  Bracebridge  had  felt  that  he  was 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  379 

escaping  from  the  designs  of  Tweed  Court.  Now,  his 
sensation  was  of  hastening  from  the  entanglements  of 
Earnshope  :  and  he  drove  towards  the  open  country. 
"  I  must  take  lodgings  in  the  suburbs  for  to-night. 
And  by  the  way  !  " — 

He  brought  his  hands  together  with  a  sounding 
clap  that  startled  little  Bel  and  made  her  lift  her  blue 
eyes  questioningly  to  his  face.  "  I'll  play  both  rascals 
a  trick  at  once.  They  deserve  it.  Let  them  fight  it 
out  between  them." 

He  burst  out  laughing,  and  Bel  smiled  up  at  him 
confidently. 

"  Little  one,"  he  said  sententiously,  "  do  you  know 
that  great  issues  hang  upon  your  identity?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  child  obediently,  and 
smiled  again.  Bel's  smile  was  wonderful. 

He  looked  upon  her,  presently,  with  a  feeling  akin 
to  awe.  The  miserable  waif,  who  but  for  him  might 
have  been  starving  upon  a  desolate  heath,  had  she 
indeed  the  blood  of  that  high  and  pure  man  in  her 
veins  ?  That  she  might  have  been  born  of  John 
Wallace's  race,  seemed  to  swallow  up  the  other  proba 
bility  of  her  noble  antecedents.  As  Leslie  Brace- 
bridge  had  come  to  dwell  upon  his  hero's  character, 
there  was  no  dignity,  no  honor,  which  all  the  peers  of 
the  realm  could  add  unto  him.  The  man's  own 
nobility  of  soul  and  beautiful  life  were  the  grandest 
inheritance  of  which  he  could  conceive,  although  he 
could  not  possibly  tell  whence  he  got  this  belief.  He 
was  sure  the  widow  had  not  meant  to  give  him  the 
impression  of  anything  remarkable  about  the  per 
son  she  had  simply  vindicated  from  false  charges. 


380  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

Whence,  then,  could  the  Being  have  arisen,  whose 
giant-like  proportions  overshadowed  everything  he 
had  formerly  considered  lofty  ?  It  was  a  mystery. 
The  man's  own  spirit  must  have  hovered  still  about 
his  mortal  dust,  and  assumed  by  degrees  an  immortal 
shape  in  the  highest  form  of  human  power  and  dignity. 
When  the  new  lodgings  were  found,  after  Mr- 
Henry  Smith  had  taken  precautions  to  dismiss  the 
cab  at  a  small  park,  and  walk  about  for  a  half-hour( 
the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  despatch  a  note  by  mail 
to  Tweed  Court.  Then  he  set  himself  to  amuse  the 

child  :  and  at  last  the  day  of  waiting   wore  itself  out. 

******** 

The  next  morning,  a  stout  florid  man  walked  punct 
ually  up  to  the  little  Inn  and  inquired  of  the  motherly- 
looking  landlady  for  Mr.  Henry  Smith. 

The  woman  didn't  know  any  such  name.  She  had 
"  only  three  lodgers  at  that  time,  an  elderly  gentle 
man  who  was  called  Robson,  and  two  commercial 
travelers  by  the  names  of  Scragget  and  Forbes.  The 
elderly  gentleman  had  been  with  her  for  some  months, 
and  was  a  sufferer  from  gout.  The  young  men  had 
but  just  arrived,  and" — 

Here  the  portly  gentleman  cut  her  short.  He  didn't 
care  anything  about  Scragget  and  Forbes.  What  he 
wanted  was  to  see  a  Mr.  Smith — a  gentleman  with  a 
little  boy,  who  was  stopping  there. 

"A  little  boy,  sir  ?"  echoed  the  landlady,  puzzled. 

"  Yes,  yes,  woman,"  fumed  the  other  ;  for  he  was  im 
patient  to  find  his  game.  "  He  hasn't  gone,  I  suppose." 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  the  good  woman  apologetically, 
"  he  'asn't  what  you  might  say,  gone,  for  he  'asn't 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  ^ 

never  come.  But  there's  another  person  here  as  is 
looking  for  the  gentleman  likewise.  Only  it's  a  little 
girl." 

The  secretary  eyed  her  doubtfully.  She  had  so 
mixed  her  personages  that  he  was  at  a  loss  to  compre 
hend  her. 

"  Blow  the  stupidity  of  these  English,"  he  mut 
tered. 

"  'Ow  very  h'irritable  Scotchmen  be,"  was  the  in 
ward  comment  of  Mrs.  Bowles. 

Of  course  the  person  she  referred  to  was  none 
other  than  Mr.  Henry  Smith,  thought  Mr.  Hotchkiss. 

"  Well,  show  me  to  him,  if  you  please,"  he  managed 
to  say  courteously. 

She  led  the  way  into  a  stuffy  little  parlor,  where 
stamping  about  in  undisguised  wrath  was  an  irascible 
and  groggy  individual,  who  was  none  other  than  the 
representative  of  No  16  Tweed  Court. 

He  looked  up  hastily,  but  failing  to  recognize  the 
intruder,  stuffed  his  hands  into  his  waistcoat,  and 
went  on  with  his  stamping. 

"  Is  your  name  Henry  Smith  ? "  demanded  Mr. 
Hotchkiss  unable  to  control  his  impatience. 

"  Na — is't  yours  ? "  retorted  the  other,  roughly. 

The  secretary  did  not  deign  a  reply.  He  picked 
up  a  seedy  annual  of  some  twenty  years  back,  and 
tried  to  content  himself,  pulling  out  his  watch  from 
its  fob  every  few  moments  and  consulting  it  with 
smothered  denunciations  upon  the  delay. 

At  last,  Tweed  Court  could  no  longer  endure  the 
situation.  He  rang  the  bell  lustily  which  brought 
the  landlady  hurriedly  to  the  room. 


382      THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  WALLA  CE. 

"  Ye  telt  that  the  gentleman  wi'  the  child  has  na 
been  here  sen  yester'morn  ?  " 

"  He  drove  away  from  'ere  in  a  cab,  the  first  thing 
after  breakfast  yesterday." 

"  An'  ye  ha'  na  getten  his  whereabouts  ? " 

"  Ow  could  I  h'ask  a  gentleman  where  'e's  goin'  to 
when  e's  paid  'is  bill  ?"  asked  the  injured  Mrs.  Bowles. 

The  other  inmate  had  been  listening  intently,  as 
a  terrier  listens  when  some-one  says — "  Rats!  " 

"  Where  did  he  get  the  cab  ? "  he  demanded  quickly 
and  without  preface. 

The  tavern  keeper  turned  and  glared  at  him  : 

"  What  is't  to  you  ?  What  be  ye  spyin'  afther,  ony, 
way  ?  What's  Mr.  Henry  Smith  to  ye,  the  day  ? " 

Mr.  Hotchkiss  rose  with  dignity  : 

"  I  am  here  by  appointment,  to  meet  him.  Pray 
have  you  any  business  with  him  ?" 

"  D n  it,"  cried  the  other — 4<  he's  letteii  it  out ! 

It'll  be  all  up  wi'  us  if  the  fuil  's  letten  it  out.  .  Be 
you  a  lawyer,  sir  ? "  he  added  with  crest-fallen  anxiety. 

"  I  am — to  all  intents  and  purposes,"  replied  the 
secretary,  angry  also  that  there  should  be  any  other 
participant  in  the  secret  which  had  tempted  him. 
Doubtless,  however,  this  clown  was  a  necessary  evil 
brought  from  Cammerden  Manor,  as  the  only  individ 
ual  who  could  swear  to  the  child's  identity. 

He  sat  drumming  upon  the  table  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  and  then  said  with  magnificent  condescen 
sion  : 

"  Perhaps, — ah — if  you  could  find  the  cab  that  Mr. 
Smith  drove  away  in,  we  could  make  something  out 
of  this  mistake." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  383 

He  still  believed  that  the  Mr.  Henry  Smith  of  his 
yesterday's  acquaintance  meant  to  deal  fairly  by  him  ; 
and  he  wished  the  other  party  safe  out  of  the  way. 

"  Na,"  snarled  the  burly  Scotchman,"  I'll  no  be 
putten  out  o'  what's  my  ain  business,  mister.  It's 
nae  lawyer  I'm  wantin'  i'  the  matter.  Ye  maun  better 
be  lookin'  afther  the  cab  yoursel'." 

The  atmosphere  of  the  stuffy  little  parlor  grew  hot 
with  suppressed  contention.  The  landlady  came  and 
went  anxiously,  at  one  time  trying  the  effect  of 
diverting  conversation,  at  another  offering  the  per 
suasion  of  a  mild  semi-temperance  concoction  of  which 
the  secretary  partook  stiffly ;  but  Tweed  Court  (who 
seemed  to  have  some  acute  reason  for  concealing  his 
name)  growled  out  that  he  "  had  nae  muckle  taste  for 
mither's  milk,  but  wad  hae  a  good  grog  or  naething." 

As  the  lumbering  old  clock  in  the  corner  hitched 
itself  towards  one  o'clock,  Mr.  Hotchkiss  rose  and 
rang  the  bell  with  dignity  : 

"  Mrs.  Bowles,"  he  said  impressively,  "  I  cannot  be 
detained  any  longer  waiting  for  Mr.  Smith.  There 
has  doubtless  been  some  just  cause  for  this  delay. 
When  he  arrives,  will  you  say  to  him  that  I  will  look 
for  him  to  bring  the  boy  to  " 

"  The  what?  "  cried  the  tavern  keeper  bounding  in 
between  Mrs.  Bowles  and  the  secretary :  "  A  b'y 
d'ye  ca't  ?  an'  he  telt  me  it  were  a  lass.  Gude  Lord, 
gude  Lord!  That  wad  be' better  'n  a' !  An'  it's 
given  me  the  slippit  he's  done  afther  a' !  " 

"  So  this  fellow  is  not  a  necessary  evil,  and  knows 
nothing  definite.  He  is  merely  an  interloper,"  thought 
the  secretary. 


384  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  Girl  or  boy,  it's  nothing  to  you,  my  man,  and  if 
you  don't  get  away  from  this  place  pretty  soon,  you 
and  I  will  have  a  settlement." 

Mr.  Hotchkiss  did  not  actually  mean  fight.  He 
merely  thought  to  intimidate  a  man  who  was  doubt 
less  a  swaggering  coward.  But  Tweed  Court  was 
keen  to  scent  battle  ;  it  was  his  native  air. 

"  Come  on,  then,  "  he  whooped  ;  and  before  the 
secretary  could  face  about,  had  him  by  the  nape  of 
his  neck. 

Mrs.  Bowles  screamed,  and  rushing  from  the  room 
used  a  womanly  precaution  towards  self  preservation  : 
She  double-locked  the  door  upon  the  combatants. 

The  two  men  by  this  time,  had  rolled  upon  the 
floor  in  fierce  embrace.  When  the  constable,  wisely 
summoned  by  the  same  cautious  female,  arrived, 
Tweed  Court  sat  victorious  upon  his  fallen  foe,  whose 
face  was  ignominiously  flattened  in  a  pool  of  blood 
that  came,  however,  from  no  more  serious  a  wound 
than  a  bloody  nose. 

The  victor,  against  whom  Mrs.  Bowles  readily  tes 
tified  that  he  had  made  the  attack  was  marched  off 
to  the  lock-up  ;  while  the  injured  secretary,  having 
paid  heavily  in  good  shillings  for  his  release,  limped 
sadly  into  the  identical  cab  which  had  borne  Brace- 
bridge  and  little  Bel  away  from  their  pursuers.  *  * 

And  what  befell  Leslie  Bracebridge  meanwile  in 
his  difficult  undertaking  ?  He  had  played  sharp  with 
two  sharpers  ;  and  now  it  behooved  him  to  show  him 
self  a  gentleman. 

The  secretary's  card  had  passed  him  easily  by  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  385 

lodge,  but  was  carried  suspiciously  up  the  broad  pol 
ished-oak  stairway  by  a  magnificent  lackey. 

"  It  is  the  Earl  himself  that  I  wish  to  see, "  he  had 
said,  grandly,  and  with  the  card  had  sent  his  own,  on 
which  he  wrote  confidently  : 

"  Upon  hurried  and  private  business  wJiich  it  would 
be  against  the  Earl's  interest  to  confide  to  his  secretary '." 

Presently  the  magnificent  lackey  returned  : 

"  My  Lord  was  not  in,  but  my  Lady  would  speak 
with  the  gentleman." 

The  man  spoke  grudgingly,  Bracebridge  thought. 
Very  likely  he  despised  the  hired  coach  which  stood 
at  the  door,  with  a  small  and  wistful  face  looking  from 
its  dingy  window. 

The  Poet  followed  his  discontented  guide  up  the 
grand  sweep  of  the  stairway,  and  was  bowed  into 
a  tiny  reception  room, — a  jewel  of  a  room,  set  in  the 
rich  casket  of  the  castle. 

"  Received  by  the  aristocracy  at  last !  "  he  cried 
mentally;  "but  I  am  not  sure  that  I  owe  it  to  John 
Wallace's  ghost,  after  all  ! "  For  his  reverence  was 
somewhat  threadbare,  and  he  could  even  joke,  at  times, 
over  his  quest. 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  with  a  stately  sweep  of 
draperies,  there  confronted  Leslie  Bracebridge  a  crea 
ture  of  so  grand  a  mien  and  so  lofty  a  countenance, 
that  he  was  overwhelmed  with  admiration. 

She  held  herself  with  cold  pride,  as  if  she  ques 
tioned  the  stranger's  privilege  to  gaze  upon  her  lovely 
face.  But  something  he  saw  there  spoke  of  a.  noble 
nature  and  a  true  soul. 

"You  have  business  with  his  Lordship  which  can- 


386  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

not  wait,  I  believe?"  she  said,  with  that  low  musical 
utterance  which  is  not  of  any  country  nor  clime,  but 
belongs  only  to  those  who  have  reigned  in  the  sphere 
called  "  high  life.''  Unquestionably,  this  woman  was 
a  queen  there. 

"  I  think  that  I  have,  Lady  Earnshope,"  answered 
Bracebridge  gently  :  "  I  have  stumbled  unawares  upon 
some  singular  facts  which  I  will  give  your  Ladyship, 
with  your  permission.  You  may,  or  may  not,  find 
them  serviceable." 

She  motioned  him  to  a  chair  at  some  distance  from 
the  one  upon  which  she  seated  herself,  and  from  which 
he  could  see,  in  an  adjoining  room,  an  aged  and 
beautiful  woman  who  reclined  upon  a  divan,  with  the 
air  of  an  invalid. 

"  Perhaps  I  had  best  be  brief,  and  your  Ladyship 
will  pardon  me  if  I  seem  abrupt  ? " 

Lady  Earnshope  bowed  her  stately  head,  and  the 
young  man  began  : 

"  Some  little  time  ago,  in  travelling  through  the 
Border  Country,  I  came  upon  the  remains  of  Camer- 
den  Manor,  which  I  believe  belonged  to  the  Earls  of 
Earnshope  ? "  (No  response.) 

"  I  found  there,  an  old  man,  who  called  himself 
Sandy  Meer,  and  who  was  dying  of  old  age — and 
starvation,  I  presume." 

The  lady  was  listening  carefully.  She  had  been 
toying  with  the  long,  silky  ears  of  a  Scotch-terrier 
that  had  followed  her  into  the  room  and  curled  himself 
upon  her  lap  when  she  seated  herself.  But  now  she 
ceased,  and  sat  quite  still. 

"  The  old  man  was  in  such  a  dire  strait,  that  I  could 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  387 

not  conscientiously  leave  him ;  for  there  was  no  one 
who  came  near  him  excepting  a  little  girl  who  was 
too  young  to  know  what  to  do  in  the  emergency.  It 
appeared  to  me  that  for  some  reason  this  old  creature 
was  cut  off — isolated — from  all  about  him.  There 
seemed  to  be  some  fear  or  superstition  concerning 
him." 

Bracebridge  watched  the  proud  face  closely,  and  he 
thought  he  saw  it's  expression  waver. 

"  Does  your  Ladyship  know  of  such  an  old  man,  and 
such  a  child,  hiding  in  secret  among  the  forsaken  ruins 
of  Camerden  Manor  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  of  what  you  speak,"  she  answered 
coldly  and  calmly,  and  began  stroking  again  the  silky 
ears. 

"  Perhaps  then,  I  have  made  a  mistake,  and  that 
there  is  nothing,  after  all,  to  tell  your  Ladyship." 

"  You  may  continue  your  story,  if  you  wish.  I 
know  nothing  to  object  to  in  the  old  man." 

"  From  what  he  said,  though  inarticulately  I  confess, 
I  gathered  that  the  child  who  was  with  him  was  the 
daughter  of  a  man  whose  existence  your  Ladyship  has 
very  likely  forgotten.  I  refer  to  the  son  of  the  present 
Earl's  older  brother,  Lord  Percy  Cammerden." 

Distinctly,  this  time,  Leslie  Bracebridge  saw  the 
beautiful  countenance  change.  A  sound,  too,  was 
heard  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  the  white  haired  in 
valid  had  sat  up  on  her  divan,  leaning  forward  like 
one  who  is  startled. 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  Lord  Percy  Cammerden  left 
a  son." 

"  I   understand   that   the   fact  is   a  disputed   one. 


388  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

Believe  me,  Lady  Earnshope,  I  have  no  wish  to  pry 
into  affairs  which  do  not  concern  any  one  but  the  Earl 
of  Earnshope.  Only,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of 
bringing  the  child  to  his  notice,  that  he  may  decide 
the  question  for  himself." 

"  You  are  exceedingly  courteous,"  said  the  Lady  of 
Earnshope,  brushing  the  dog  from  her  lap  with  the 
wave  of  her  white  hand  that  seemed  to  carry  dismis 
sal  to  the  young  man  also  :  "  Undoubtedly  the  Earl 
will  look  into  the  matter.  Will  you  be  kind  enough 
to  leave  the  child's  address  with  my  husband's  secre 
tary." 

"Lady  Earnshope,''  said  Leslie  Bracebridge  rising 
with  a  flush  of  color  on  his  brow,  "  the  child  has  no 
address,  because  she  has  no  home.  If  I  had  left  her 
in  the  wretched  hovel  where  I  found  her,  she  would 
have  starved  to  death  also.  She  is  waiting  your  de 
cision,  in  a  cab  below." 

The  Lady  of  Earnshope  rose  also.  She  seemed  to 
tower  above  her  visitor,  in  the  cold  dignity  of  her 
scorn  : 

"  You  have  taken  an  uncalled-for  liberty,  Mr. 
Bracebridge.  I  must  request  you  either  to  take  the 
child  away  with  you  and  not  trouble  the  Earl  further 
about  the  matter,  or  to  leave  her  at  the  Lodge 
until  he  shall  conclude  whether  there  is  anything  in 
your  statement.  In  the  latter  case,  I  must  beg  that 
you  will  consider  you  have  sufficiently  done  your 
duty,  and  leave  the  affair  once  for  all  to  his  Lordship's 
option." 

Leslie  Bracebridge  bowed  low: 

"  Certainly,  Lady  Earnshope.     The  child  is  nothing 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  389 

to  me  but  an  object  of  humane  consideration.  I  can 
conscientiously  consign  her  to  your  hands." 

"And  whatever  compensation  you  wish  for  your 
trouble  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  mention  to  Mr. 
Hotchkiss  who  is  doubtless  in  his  office,"  continued  the 
Lady  of  Earnshope,  loftily. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  Poet  proudly,  "  I  desire  no 
compensation  whatever  for  doing  my  duty  :  but  " — 

Here  the  clesperateness  of  his  determination  to 
strike  one  more  blow  for  his  main  chance  nearly 
overcame  him,  in  the  presence  of  so  proud  and  beauti 
ful  a  creature. 

"  What  do  you  desire,  if  not  compensation  ?  "  asked 
my  Lady  distinctly. 

"  I  desire  to  know  if  I  am  not  speaking  with  one 
who  can  give  me  some  clew  to — The  Lady  Correspon 
dent  of  John  Wallace" 

The  beautiful  eyes  looked  full  into  his  with  an  ex 
pression  of  amazement  not  unmixed  with  alarm  : 

"  If  I  have  not  questioned  your  sanity  hitherto,  Mr. 
Bracebridge,  I  cannot  help  doing  so  at  so  remarkable 
a  digression  " 

Here,  as  she  stretched  out  her  faultless  hand  to 
touch  a  silken  bell-rope,  they  both  caught  sight  of  an 
apparition  in  the  doorway.  It  was  the  pale  invalid, 
who  had  noiselessly  crossed  the  adjoining  room,  and 
stood  with  white  face  and  unearthly  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  disconcerted  young  man.  She  seemed  to  pant 
for  breath,  and  clutched  the  door-frame  for  support. 

Lady  Earnshope  stepped  forward,  but  not  until  she 
had  pulled  the  crimson  cord. 

"  Madam,"  she  said  with  gentle  firmness,  "  you  are 


390  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

too  ill  to  rise  alone.  You  should  not  have  crossed 
the  room  without  Lettice." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  "  muttered  the  other  between 
shaking  lips  :  "  What  is  he  talking  about  ?  I  could 
not  hear  distinctly  ?  " 

"  He  is  saying  some  exceedingly  foolish  things," 
retorted  my  Lady,  leading  the  older  woman  with 
gentle  compulsion  to  a  chair. 

"  But  what  about  the  Lady  Correspondent  " — 

"  Really,  Madam,"  interrupted  the  calm,  musical 
voice,  "  I  could  not  comprehend  this  gentleman's 
vagaries.  Falconer,  "  to  the  lackey  who  appeared 
"  you  will  show  this  gentleman  to  his  carriage.  And 
Falconer  " — looking  grandly  over  her  shoulder  as  the 
humbled  Poet  withdrew  behind  the  liveried  coat — 
"  Send  word  to  the  Lodge,  that  his  business  at  the 
Castle  is  concluded." 

The  liveried  back  which  Bracebridge  meekly 
followed  seemed  to  expand  with  triumph. 

"  Rejected  by  the  aristocracy,"  he  muttered,  all  the 
exultation  faded  from  his  face  :  "  And  really "  he 
added  with  a  hopelessly  puzzled  air,  li  I  don't  know 
yet  whether  I  owe  it  to  John  Wallace — or  not." 

At  this  precise  moment  the  tavern  keeper  was  be 
ing  marched  off  by  the  constable,  while  the  belabored 
secretary  limped  away.  Perhaps  of  the  three,  the 
Poet  was  the  most  crestfallen. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
"UNDOUBTEDLY  IT  is  THE  END." 

"  One  poor  pleading  more  and  I  have  done 
But  shall  I  ply  my  papers,  play  my  proofs, 
Parade  my  studies,  fifty  in  a  row, 
As  though  the  court  were  yet  in  pupilage, 
And  not  the  artisfs  ultimate  appeal  f 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

"  I  AM  going  to  leave  you  here,  Bel,"  remarked  the 
young  man,  as  he  descended  from  the  cab  at  the  door 
of  the  Lodge.  A  servant  was  following  on  foot  to 
verify  this  statement  to  the  inmates  of  the  Lodge. 

The  blue  eyes  opened  wide  with  a  deprecating 
surprise. 

"  You  are  to  go  and  live  at  the  Castle,  little  one. 
They  will  be  very  kind  to  you,"  he  continued,  seeing 
the  startled  look. 

"  I  dinna  want  to  le'  ye,  sir,"  broke  from  the  child 
who  clung  to  his  hand ;  "  I  wad  reyther  go  ben  to 
your  hame."  And  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  But  I  have  no  home — nor  any  wife  nor  children, 
Bel,  and  I  live  on  the  other  side  of  a  great  sea,"  the 
Poet  answered  somewhat  staggered  at  this  new  con 
sideration.  He  had  no  idea  that  his  little  protege 
had  attached  herself  to  him  in  her  quaint,  demure 
fashion. 


392  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  It  is  a  fine  place  there,  and  you  will  be  very 
happy,"  he  hazarded,  smothering  an  honest  doubt. 

"  But  they  winna  luve  me,  sir,"  she  sobbed."  An' 
Grandfather  telt  the  folks  as  lives  i'  gran'  places  is 
hard  and  cauld  as  stane.  O  please  dinna'  sen'  me 
there  !  Le'  me  stay  here." 

Leslie  Bracebridge  had  a  soft  heart.  He  was  a 
poet,  remember,  and  somewhat  out  of  his  element  as 
detective  and  newspaper  reporter.  "  Wait,  Bel,"  he 
said,  lifting  her  from  the  cab,  and  kissing  her  gently 
on  the  forehead. 

Then  he  went  into  the  Lodge,  and  began  to  talk 
with  the  woman,'  who  eyed  them  wistfully  from  the 
door.  She  had  lost  her  only  child  not  long  before, 
and  little  Bel's  bonny  face  had  won  upon  her  heart 
the  previous  day. 

"  She  is  an  orphan,  and  is  thrown  upon  the  Earl's 
charity,"  he  explained.  "  Perhaps  his  lordship  would 
be  glad  if  you  would  keep  her.  He  would  of  course 
pay  you '' 

"  O  Sir,"  cried  the  woman,  her  eyes  brimming  over 
"  It's  not  the  pay  I'd  be  wantin'.  It's  the  bonnie  lass. 
She's  that  like  my  ain  lost  Bessie,  as  it  breaks  me 
hairt  wi'  luve  to  see  her.  Couldn'a  ye  manage  to 
leave  the  bairn  wi'  me  a'  togither  ? " 

"  I  fear  I  can  do  nothing  definite  about  it,"  Brace- 
bridge  said,  perplexed.  In  his  effort  to  do  the  best 
for  the  little  creature  he  had,  it  seemed,  overstepped 
what  would  have  been  a  safer  and  simpler  plan.  Go 
ing  to  the  cab  where  he  had  left  the  sobbing  child,  he 
led  her  tenderly  to  the  woman. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  393 

"  Would  you  like  to  live  here,  little  one,  and  have  a 
mother  of  your  own  ?  " 

For  answer,  wee  Bel  lifted  her  head  to  the  kind  face 
above  her.  Then,  without  a  word,  she  ran  to  the 
arms  outstretched  to  her.  The  woman  folded  her  to 
her  heart,  sobbing. 

"  O  Sir,"  she  said,  "  my  gude  mon  wi'be  unco  happy 
the  day.  He  said,  yester'e'en,  that  the  lass  was  so 
like  our  ain,  he  couldn'a  bear  to  luik  at  her.  But  if 
she  could  belong  to  us,  he  wad  luve  her  the  same." 

"  I  am  sure  that  the  Earl  will  make  no  objections  to 
your  keeping  this  child : "  and  Bracebridge  wrote 
hastily  upon  a  card  to  the  effect  that  as  his  suspicions 
were  very  likely  unfounded,  he  hoped  the  child  might 
find  a  home  with  the  kind  people  who  wanted  her. 

This  he  addressed  to  Mr.  Hotchkiss.  /'The  fellow 
will  never  dare  intimate  that  he  had  any  secret  under 
standing  with  me,"  he  concluded.  Then  he  bethought 
himself  of  the  tavern  keeper. 

"  If  a  man  should  come  here,  and  talk  about  one 
Sandy  Meer  ;  or  want  to  meddle  with  the  child  in  any 
way,  do  not  admit  him  :  He  is  a  worthless  rascal,"  he 
said  to  the  woman,  who  promised  readily. 

Then  he  turned,  and  lifting  the  little  Scotch  maiden 
in  his  arms,  kissed  her  for  the  last  time. 

"  God  bless  thee  Little  Bel.  Thou  art  sheltered, 
poor  wee  lamb." 

"Tha'sbeen  sae  gude  tome,  Sir,"  murmured  the 
child,  shyly,  looking  with  sweet  confidence  into  his 
eyes,  and  smiling  through  her  tears. 

"  Thank  heaven  I've  accomplished  some  good, — in 
cidentally, — in  all  this  business,''  the  Poet  thought  as 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

he  drove  at  last  to  a  hotel,  somewhat  relieved,  it  must 
be  confessed,  to  be  no  longer  encumbered  with  the 
friendless  child. 

When  he  had  lunched  and  consulted  the  railway 
time-table,  he  found  that  he  had  barely  time  to  make 
the  express  train  for  London. 

Once  on  board,  he  had  leisure  to  think.  The  ap 
parition  of  the  invalid  woman's  pale  and  scared  face 
in  the  doorway  of  Lady  Earnshope's  boudoir,  impressed 
him  more  and  more.  There  was  something  in  that 
terrified  look  which  the  younger  woman  had  compre 
hended,  and  desired  to  cover. 

"  What  if   that  white  and  stricken  creature    were 
The  Lady   Correspondent  of  John    Wallace — and  " — 
here  the  blood  gave  a  tingling  leap  through  the  young 
man's  veins: — "  his  wife  !  " 
#**#*##**# 

When  Leslie  Bracebridge  came  upon  the  now 
familiar  offices  in  Lothbury,  and  read  the  impressive 
name — "Roderic  Clarkson,  Solicitor  in  Chancery"  for 
the  last  time,  he  was  nearly  as  agitated  as  upon  his 
first  visit.  But  this  time  it  was  hope  which  stirred 
his  bosom — triumph,  rather  than  trepidation. 

He  had  made  bold  strokes,  and  played  what  seemed 
now  to  have  been  a  marvelous  game. 

"  I'm  a  lucky  dog,  after  all,"  he  thought,  "  to  have 
things  turn  up  in  my  path  as  they  have  done.  It 
isn't  every  fellow  who  picks  up  a  denouement  for  the 
hunting." 

Then  he  began  to  map  out  the  pending  interview. 

He  had,  on  consideration,  decided  to  march  up  to 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  395 

Mr.  Roderic  Clarkson  and  say,  not  timorously,  but 
boldly  and  with  authority  : 

"  I  am  undecided,  Mr.  Clarkson,  whether  to  name 
your  client,  whose  history  I  have  been  tracing  back 
to  its  mystery,  Robert  Keith,  formerly  Judge  on  the 
bench  in  this  city,  or — more  probably — Lord  Percy 
Cammerden,  second  son  of  the  Earl  of  Earnshope." 

He  went  over  this  speech  many  times,  familiariz 
ing  himself  with  its  conciseness,  and  with  the  expres 
sion  of  the  solicitor's  face  when  coldness  should  give 
way  to  unavoidable  amazement  and  interest. 

He  even  felt  the  grip  of  the  august  hand,  and  re 
ceived  serenely  the  congratulations  sure  to  reward 
his  extraordinary  success.  Perhaps  Mr.  Clarkson 
might  go  so  far  as  to  hint  that  he  would  find  a  young 
man  of  his  caution  and  discretion  valuable  in  such 
matters  of  extreme  delicacy  as  frequently  fall  to  the 
care  of  solicitors  who  have  the  affairs  of  great  families 
in  their  control.  He  might,  peradventure,  make  an 
offer. 

"  Such  an  office  would  have  its  uses,  its  fascina 
tions — for  a  while.  On  the  whole,  I  might  be  in 
duced  to  accept — should  the  terms  be  generous.  It 
would  give  me  a  certain  prestige  " 

When  Bracebridge's  cogitations  had  reached  this 
point,  he  was  standing  in  the  outer  vestibule  of  the 
sombre  rooms  which  seemed  from  some  cause  to  have 
attained  an  accession  of  dignity  and  gloom. 

There  was  no  smile  or  other  recognition  upon  the 
face  of  the  person  who  opened  the  door  to  usher  him 
into  the  writing-room,  although  he  had  several  times 


396  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

performed  that  office,  and  the  Poet  distinctly  identified 
his  countenance. 

Bracebridge  received  his  duty-bow  quite  airily,  and 
remarked,  taking  a  confident  step  forwards  : 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Roderic  Clarkson.  Is  he  re 
turned  from  Brighton  ?" 

The  fellow  looked  at  him,  he  thought,  superciliously. 

"  Sir,"  he  said  in  an  incomprehensible  tone. 

Bracebridge  repeated  his  demand  with  great  force 
of  dignity. 

"  Mr.  Roderic  Clarkson — Sir  ?  "  echoed  the  other 
with  what  seemed  like  insolence. 

"Yes,"  cried  Bracebridge  impatiently;  "can't  you 
tell  me  if  he  has  returned  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — "  said  the  clerk,  not  offer 
ing  to  let  the  visitor  pass — "  Sir  Roderic  Clarkson  is 
dead." 

"  Dead  !  "  gasped  the  Poet,  and  for  an  instant  was 
ready  to  fall  down;  this  had  in  no  way  occurred  to 
his  remotest  calculations  :  "  Dead  !  when — how — 
where  ?  " 

"  A  fortnight  since.  Of  overwork.  At  Brighton," 
responded  the  clerk  monotonously. 

"  Who  carries  on  his  affairs  ?  " 

"  The  gentlemen  of  the  Firm." 

"  And  who  are  they  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Giles  Wilberforce  and  Mr.  Henry  Morton." 

"  I  wish  to  see  one  or  the  other  of  them." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Which  gentleman  did  you 
say  ? " 

"  Mr.  Morton,"  cried  the  excited  visitor,  hap-hazard. 
The  name  sounded  less  awful. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  397 

"  He  is  at  present  in  court." 

"  Mr.  Wilberforce,  then,"  (impatiently.)  "Now  I've 
got  to  begin  at  the  beginning  again."  (despairingly, 
sotto  voce.) 

After  the  usual  routine  of  ceremonious  delay,  which 
now  seemed  absurdly  irksome  to  the  young  man  who 
had  achieved  so  much,  and  felt  therefore  that  he  had 
a  right  to  despatch,  he  was  ushered  into  the  presence 
of  a  wiry  little  man  with  mutton  chop  whiskers,  the  pre 
cise  complement  of  the  courtly  Sir  Roderic.  The 
well-laid  scheme  of  commencement ;  the  speedy 
triumph  ;  the  final  hand-shake  and  congratulations 
had  all  faded. 

Leslie  Bracebridge's  mood  was  scarcely  equal  to  the 
unexpected  effort  before  him.  The  sudden  fall  from 
exultation  had  thrown  him  into  chaos. 

"  My  business  has  been  with  Mr.  Clarkson."  he 
began  half  apologetically,  despising  himself  for  his  hu 
mility. 

The  new  senior  barely  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  token 
of  assent. 

"  He  is  a  typical  Englishman,"  thought  the  Poet, 
shivering  as  though  an  ice-bath  had  descended  upon 
him.  "  More  impatient  and  less  polite  than  his  prede 
cessor." 

"  I  regret  extremely  his  decease" 

(The  eyebrows  were  again  stirred.) 

"  But  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  can  conclude  the 
matter  for  me." 

He  bowed,  and  the  Poet  proceeded  nervously : 

"My  business  was  in  reference  to  John  Wallace" 
— (a  pause  :  no  sign  of  recognition  in  the  icy  face) — 


3g8  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  who  was  a  former  client  of  Mr.  Clarkson's  ; " 
— (another  pause  :  still  no  show  of  interest) — "  who 
lived  for  many  years  in  exile  in  the  United  States  " — 
(third  pause) — "  and  who  died  some  ten  years  since  " 
— (final  pause). 

Bracebridge  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  recital,  and 
had  elicited  no  sign  of  response  from  the  owner  of  the 
mutton-chop  whiskers. 

He  cleared  his  throat  and  commenced  again,  with 
very  much  the  helpless  feeling  of  battering  his  head 
against  a  stone  wall : 

"  Possibly  you  know  of  the  affairs  of  this  gentle 
man — or  can  ascertain  for  me  ?  " 

"  What  is  the  precise  business  you  were  transacting 
with  Sir  Roderic  ?  What  had  he  undertaken  to  ac 
complish  ? " 

The  young  man  winced. 

"  I  had  undertaken  to  accomplish  the  business  for 
myself.  Sir  Roderic  merely  promised  to  confirm  my 
efforts." 

"  Then  I  am  to  understand  that  he  was  not  engaged 
in  making  any  investigation  for  you,  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge." 

"  N— no." 

"  Was  there  any  estate  in  trust  ? " 

"  I  think  not, — since  Mr.  Wallace's  death." 

"  Nor  any  heirs  who  were  minors  ?  " 

"  None  that  were  acknowledged  as  such." 

"  What,  then,  was  the  business  you  were  transact- 
ing?" 

"  With  the  identity  of  the  man  himself,"  answered 
Bracebridge  recovering  his  wits :  "  I  was  empowered 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  399 

by  Mr.  Clarkson  to  discover  his  former  client's  actual 
position — his  name." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  were  employed  by  my 
late  partner  for  that  purpose  ?  " 

"  Not  precisely  ;  the  search  was  my  own.  But  he 
lent  me  his  interest — his  sanction — " 

"Then  this  was  not  a  business  matter,  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge  ?  "  with  cold  inquiry. 

"  To  Mr.  Clarkson  it  was  not." 

"  But  merely  some  personal  affair  of  your  own,  which 
Sir  Roderic  was  pleased  to  amuse  himself  with." 

"  I  presume  that  is  how  you  would  regard  it." 

"  And  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  any  case  or 
present  client  of  his  ? " 

"  None  that  I  am  positive  about." 

Mr.  Giles  Wilberforce  was  a  good  inquisitor,  and 
had  reduced  all  the  Poet's  resources  to  atoms. 

"  Then,  sir,  all  I  can  say  is  that  no  such  personal 
interests  were  left  in  the  hands  of  the  present  firm  at 
the  late  Sir  Roderic  Clarkson's  demise." 

"  But,  Mr.  Wilberforce,  this  is  a  very  serious  matter 
to  me — and  to  others.  It  may  possibly  affect  the 
Earl  of  Earnshope.  Do  you  not  know  of  this  affair — 
this  man  who  called  himself  John  Wallace  ?  " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  reply  that  I  do  not. 
We  have  each  retained  exclusively  our  own  clients. 
Only  such  were  transferred  to  me,  or  my  partner,  per 
sonally,  during  the  late  Sir  Roderic's  last  illness,  as 
signified  their  desire  to  be  so  transferred.  I  believe 
that  I  have  never  heard  of  the  name  of  John  Wallace." 

"  Could  not  you  look  up  some  papers — anything — 
which  would  throw  light  upon  the  subject  ?  '* 


4oo  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

"  If  there  were  such  papers,  you  would  have  to  prove 
your  right  to  ask  questions  in  regard  to  them." 

"  My  right  is  the  permission  of  Sir  Roderic  Clark- 
son,"  cried  Bracebridge  eagerly — "  and  the'possible 
interests  of  the  Earl  of  Earnshope." 

"  We  have  the  honor  of  representing  the  Cammer- 
den  family  in  London,"  remarked  Mr.  Wilberforce 
quietly. 

"  Then  cannot  you  glance  at  the — the  affairs  of  the 
late  Earl,  say  some  forty  years  back,  and  see  if  that 
name  occurs.  It  would  be  a  great  favor." 

The  cold  stare  vouchsafed  in  reply  put  the  Poet's 
courage  to  final  flight.  Evidently  it  was  an  unheard-of 
offense  to  ask  a  solicitor  to  glance  at  anything  which 
did  not  belong  to  the  present  issue  and  to  the  person 
making  the  demand.  Moreover,  the  law  shows  no 
favors.  Mr.  Wilberforce  waited  for  some  explana 
tion  to  be  offered  as  a  guaranty  of  his  interlocutor's 
right  in  the  matter.  None  coining,  he  answered 
abruptly : 

"  I  cannot  possibly  do  anything  of  the  sort." 

"  I  have  already  seen  Lady  Earnshope  and  dis 
cussed  this  thing  with  her,"  hazarded  Bracebridge> 
not  intending,  however,  to  quote  that  conversation  in 
detail. 

This  last  was  not  without  effect.  Mr.  Giles  Wil 
berforce  rang  a  bell. 

"  I  will  at  least  make  inquiries,"  he  said. 

A  clerk  appeared,  to  whom  the  solicitor  stated 
briefly  that  the  papers  of  a  certain  client  called  John 
Wallace,  who  had  died  ten  years  before,  were  required. 

The  clerk  disappeared,  and  the  owner  of  the  frigid 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  401 

visage  resumed  his  writing  as  though  no  one  were 
present. 

After  what  seemed  an  intolerable  delay,  the  clerk 
re-appeared,  saying  that  the  papers  had  all  been 
destroyed,  among  those  of  many  other  deceased 
clients,  at  Mr.  Clarkson's  written  order,  a  week  prev 
ious  to  his  death. 

This  Mr.  Wilberforce  communicated  formally  to 
the  Poet,  as  though  he  had  not  heard  every  word  of 
the  statement,  which  sank  like  lead  in  his  bosom. 

He  could  not  take  it  all  in  at  first. 

"  What  does  it  all  mean  ? "  he  stammered. 

"  It  means  that  we  can  give  you  no  information 
whatever  in  reference  to  the  person  about  whom  you 
have  made  inquiries." 

"  But  the  other  partner — Mr.  Morton." 

"  Mr.  Henry  Morton  is  the  junior  partner  of  our 
firm.  He  attends  to  an  entirely  different  line  of 
practice.  I  may  affirm,  without  hesitation,  that  the 
matters  of  trust  are  mine." 

"  You  don't — you  can't  mean,"  cried  the  baffled 
man,  "  that  this  is  the  end  ? " 

"  Undoubtedly  it  is  the  end,"  replied  the  chilly 
solicitor,  unconsciously  quoting  from  The  Ring  and 
the  Book,  whose  forever  unsolved  problem  had  run, 
like  a  perplexing  thread,  all  through  Bracebridge's 
tangled  endeavor  ;  "  unless  you  have  interests  or  claims 
of  sufficient  weight  to  warrant  your  engaging  in 
serious  litigation." 

"  O  dear  no  !  I  am  sure  of  nothing  !  I  am  baffled 
— beaten." 

Bracebridge  rose  with  a  dazed  and  weary  air.     The 


402  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

fruit  of  all  his  effort  crumbled  away,  like  an  apple  of 
Sodom,  in  his  hand. 

As  the  lawyer  touched  the  bell  that  summoned  the 
next  client,  he  turned  to  stammer  something  about 
the  "value  of  services" — always  an  appalling  problem 
to  the  uninitiated.  But  Mr.  Wilberforce  replied 
curtly  that  he  had  found  no  memoranda  of  his  affairs  ; 
doubtless  Sir  Roderic  had  been  humoring  himself 
with  an  entirely  personal  fancy. 

The  Poet  stumbled  out,  muttering  over  and  over  to 
himself,  "  Undoubtedly  it  is  the  end." 

He  wandered  back  to  his  lodging-house,  where  he 
was  for  some  days  prostrated  with  a  bad  fever,  not 
so  much  from  physical  derangement  as  from  disap 
pointment  and  the  reaction  after  severe  mental  ex 
citement.  So  said  the  apothecary. 

When  he  first  recovered  from  the  stupor  of  his 
fever,  it  was  to  hear  the  landlady  say  to  this  gentle 
man  : 

"  He's  a  gay  young  fellow,  and  of  good  blood,  for 
all  his  plain  looks.  He's  done  nothing  but  chatter 
about  Lord  Percy  Cammerden,  whoever  he  be,  an' 
the  Earl  of  Earnshope.  He  has  fine  friends,  happen." 

And  so  an  exorbitant  bill  from  the  honest  woman, 
as  well  as  a  considerable  one  from  the  apothecary, 
was  added  to  Bracebridge's  mortification  and  misery. 

His  pocket-book  was  hopelessly  reduced  ;  he  had 
met  none  of  the  enchanting  people  or  agreeable  epi 
sodes  that  were  to  welcome  him.  On  the  contrary,  he 
felt  that  he  had  been  abused  by  many  indifferent  and 
disagreeable  persons,  and  all  that  he  could  say  of  cer 
tainty  was  this:  "  Undoubtedly,  it  is  the  end." 


FINALE. 

COMPRISING  LESLIE    BRACEBRIDGE'S  FINAL    MYSTIFICA 
TION  AND  MORTIFICATION. 

"  O  why,  why  was  it  not  ordained  just  so  ? 
Why  fell  not  things  out  so  nor  otherwise? 
Ask  that  particular  devil  whose  task  it  is 
To  trip  the  all-but-at-perfection, — slur 
The  line  o'  the  fainter  Just  where  paint  leaves  ojff 
And  life  begins, — -puts  ice  into  the  ode 
O'  the  poet  while  he  cries  "  next  stanza— fire  !" 
Inscribes  all  human  effort  with  one  word, 
Artistry 's  haunting  curse  the  incomplete  ! 
Being  incomplete,  the  act  escaped  success   ***** 
What  was  there  wanting  to  a  master-piece 
Except  the  luck  that  lies  beyond  a  man  ? 

THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 

THE  Play  is  played  out.  The  puppets  that  have 
moved  upon  the  village  stage ;  the  later,  would-be 
actors  that  have  crossed  and  re- crossed  wider  and 
less  clearly  defined  boards,  are  all  swept  away,  while 
the  veil  of  obscurity  descends,  like  a  curtain,  upon 
the  whole.  But  is  the  Drama  complete  ?  Some 
where,  the  misc-cn-scene  was  at  fault. 

During  many  acts,  the  hero  has  not  been  visible 
before  the  uncertain  foot-lights,  or  among  the  shifting 
side-scenes,  though  his  spectre  has  perpetually  haunt- 


404  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

ed  the  shadowed  background.  Even  the  magnificent 
Prologue  which  the  Poet  was  preparing,  failed  of  ut 
terance.  He  has  in  his  hands,  all  written  out  the  ac 
tion  of  his  tragedy  ;  but  the  dramatis  persona  ha*Te 
eluded  him. 

He  comes  back  to  the  little  village  of  peace,  and 
sits  down  thoughtfully  before  the  white  slab  that  bears 
this  still  unsolved  mystery, 

"  John  Wallace." 

But  nearly  two  years  have  elapsed,  since  he  came 
disconsolately  to  the  end  of  his  endeavor.  The  Au 
tumn  was  then  so  far  advanced  that  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  finish  the  year  in  Scotland,  "  among  his  kin," 
he  modestly  decided. 

After  some  delay,  he  found  a  near  branch  of  the 
Leslies  living  in  great  comfort  in  Edinburgh  ;  and 
these  hospitable  people  made  him  so  warmly  welcome 
that  the  winter  stole  away,  and  spring  followed  it  be 
fore  he  could  tear  himself  from  the  pleasant  associa 
tions. 

His  uncle,  a  physician  of  some  standing,  took  a 
great  fancy  to  the  rather  impractical  young  man  ; 
who  in  return,  attached  himself  warmly  to  his  cousin 
Grace. 

At  first  his  heart  was  so  sore  about  his  disappoint 
ments,  that  the  occasion  of  his  visit  to  Scotland  was 
never  referred  to.  By  little  and  little  however, 
through  the  softening  influence  of  his  cousin's  sym 
pathy,  the  whole  story  came  out,  and  was,  strange  to 
say,  tolerated  by  the  good  doctor,  much  to  the  sur 
prise  and  delight  of  Grace  Leslie.  She' was  not  with 
out  romance  ;  and  the  unsolved  riddle  caused  her 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  405 

endless  surmises  and  wonderment.  One  day,  she  was 
sure  that  Robert  Keith  was  the  missing  man  ;  the 
next,  she  felt  assured  that  Lord  Percy  Cammerden 
and  none  other  was  the  spectre  who  had  posed  as 
John  Wallace.  They  went  together  to  the  Lodge  of 
Earnshope,  and  always  found  little  Bel  safe  and  con 
tent. 

"  His  Lordship  has  na'  troubled  us  aboon  the 
bairn,"  the  woman  said.  "  It's  Mr.  Hotchkiss  as  wad 
speer  at  me  ower  muckle.  But  I  telt  him  the  lass 
were  my  ain  niece,  an'  he  ha'  letten  it  go,  I  ween. " 

"  Has  not  anybody  from  outside  come  to  question  ? '' 
Bracebridge  asked. 

'•  Na — savin'  once,  when  a  great  sweerin'  gomeral 
cam'  an  wad  hae  a  blink  o'  the  bairn,  ony  gate. 
I  telt  him  that  I  had  na'  seen  chick  nor  childer 
save  my  ain  i'  the  place  this  twelve-month.  He  was 
unco  wroth,  an'  my  gudemon  was  liken  to  pouther 
his  pow  wi'  a  watering  can." 

Bracebridge  was  content.  Things  seemed  to  have 
come  to  a  joyous  end  for  wee  Bel. 

"  Are  you  happy,  little  one,"  he  asked  the  child, 
who  already  began  to  take  on  the  fresh  sweet  roses 
of  childhood. 

"  Aye  !  I'm  that  happy  Mister  Bracebridge.  It's 
unco  lang  syne  Iv'e  wanted  bit  or  broth.  If  only—'' 
and  tears  glistened  in  her  pretty  eyes — "grandfather 
were  na'  lyin'  where  the  cauld  blasts  o'  the  winter 
wind  will  blaw  ower  his  head,  when  the  summer's 
done.  Grandfather  feared  the  snaw,"  she  added  with 
a  sob. 

"  The  wind  and  snow  cannot  hurt  him  now,  Bel," 


406 

said  Grace  Leslie,  gently  :  "  It  is  always  spring-time 
in  the  country  where  he  has  gone." 

"  She's  a  gude  bairnie,"  interrupted  the  foster- 
mother  apologetically,  "  an'  makes  ilka  things  look 
braw  aboon  the  bit  house.  But  she  will  greet  for  the 
grandfather,  whiles.  Eh,  mister,"  she  added  in  a 
whisper,  "  It's  a  wonder  the  Earl  does  na'  covet  her 
gowden  head  glinting  i'  the  sunlicht.  I'm  afeared 
mony  a  time  when  I  see  him  take  note  o'  the  bonnie 
lassie.  Waes  me !  I  winna  grudge  my  Leddy  her 
braws,  nor  a'  her  gear,  savin'  she  leaves  me  the 
bairn." 

Bracebridge  bethought  himself,  and  was  able  to  re 
assure  the  woman  that  the  child  was  safe. 

Doctor  Leslie,  having  heard  the  whole  many-sided 
story,  made  what  inquiries  he  could  upon  the  out 
skirts  of  the  Earl's  family  history  ;  but  John  Wallace 
still  sat  in  the  Great  Dark,  like  some  remote  being 
inscrutable  to  the  curiosity  of  the  common  herd.  Or, 
shall  we  say,  rather,  in  the  Great  Light,  lived 

•'  The  snow-white  soul  that  angels  fear  to  take  untenderly." 

And  beside  him  was  the  shadow  of  little  Bel. 

At  last  the  parting  came.  The  Poet's  disappoint 
ments  had  settled  into  a  quiet  forgetfulness,  and  he 
felt  that  his  winter  of  satisfaction  had  more  than  com 
pensated  for  the  summer  of  chagrin.  But  another 
year  had  passed  before  he  had  courage  to  seek  the 
primitive  shades  of  Rest-Hampton. 

It  was  the  middle  of  July,  1882,  when  he  reached 
the  familiar  precincts  of  the  little  village  that  John 
Wallace  had  named  Peace. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  407 

Here  he  found  a  change.     Could  it  be  ?         *         * 

Witness  his  testimony  given  in  a  letter  published 
by  the  same  journal  which  had  printed  that  other 
letter  from  what  he  was  pleased  to  name  "  Artist- 
haven,"  which  made  up  the  preliminary  chapter  of 
this  book.  *  * 

"Yes,  there  is  a  change.  Something  has  happened 
to  Artist-haven,  since  the  Tile  Club  came  down  upon 
it  and  disturbed  its  sequestered  content. 

"It  is  seen  in  the  new  buildings  rising  jauntily  here 
and  there,  crowding  out  the  shingle  cottages  and 
great  trees  that  once  made  such  a  picturesque  vista 
of  the  long,  green  street.  It  is  felt  in  the  altera 
tions  that  are  beginning  to  crop  out  upon  the  meek 
faces  of  the  old  houses  themselves.  It  is  heard 
in  the  bustle  and  stir  about  the  new  railroad  that  is 
soon  to  desecrate  the  sweet  silence  of  the  hamlet, 
whose  broad  and  daisied  highway  may  be  ripped  up 
with  a  gash  of  iron  tracks  before  these  sheets  are 
dry  from  press. 

"  Let  us  see  where  comes  the  difference. 

"  It  is  not  so  much  in  the  outward  aspect  of  the 
town  itself,  as  in  the  altered  appearance  of  the  beach. 
Once,  the  sea  beat  in  lonely  majesty  upon  the  long 
stretch  of  sands,  heaving  now  and  then  into  those 
great  breakers  that  roared  up  and  down  the  coast  like 
the  storm  waves  upon  far  northern  rocks. 

"  Now,  it  is  transformed  into  the  sporting  ground  of 
a  noisy  and  merry  crowd  whose  voices  drown  the 
chanting  of  the  surf,  and  fill  the  wanderer's  soul  with 
loathing.  They  have  spread  a  fancy-bazaar  effect  of 
gay-colored  tents  abroad  upon  the  peaceful  sands, 


408  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

where  they  dart  in  and  out  as  much  at  home  as  a 
flock  of  pigeons  upon  a  painted  dove-cote. 

"  Nor  do  they  desport  themselves  only  upon  the 
beach.  All  about  the  low-pitched  farmhouses  ;  over 
the  broad  expanse  of  green  still  traversed  by  mean 
dering  roadways  ;  by  way  of  the  disjointed  old  stage- 
coarhes  which  once  carried  the  semi-occasional  visitor, 
or  the  almost  as  episodical  mail ;  even  among  the 
mouldering  graves  of  their  progenitors,  the  villagers 
have  at  last  welcomed  that  nomad  of  fashion — the 
summer  boarder. 

"  What  their  great-grandfathers  beneath  the  sod — 
what,  indeed,  the  fathers  themselves  only  a  few  inno 
cent  years  back — would  have  said  to  such  an  invasion, 
remains  an  awful  mystery  to  be  meditated  upon  in 
the  bosom  of  each  family. 

"  Not  the  ravages  of  the  Indians  themselves  among 
the  homes  of  those  early  settlers  could  have  carried 
greater  dismay  to  their  Puritan  bosoms  than  this 
oncome  of  the  world  and  the  flesh — accompanied,  in 
their  eyes  at  least,  by  that  other  power  of  evil  called 
'  the  devil.' 

"  Their  prayers  and  their  prowess  might  deliver 
them  from  the  terror  of  the  savage  ;  but  who  could 
deliver  them  from  the  insidious  snares  of  the  wicked 
one  ? 

"  However  it  happened,  who  first  began  it,  can  never 
be  told.  But  all  at  once — as  if  one  of  those  great 
breakers  had  reared  up  and  overwhelmed  the  land 
beyond  the  dunes — a  current  of  modern  innovations 
has  swept  over  these  out-of-the-world  farmers  and  the 
well-to-do  gentry,  who  had  hitherto  led  equally  seclu- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  409 

ded  lives.  Now  they  find  themselves  the  beholders  of, 
and  in  one  sense  the  participants  in,  all  the  fascina 
tions  and  some  of  the  follies  of  fashionable  life. 

"  They  are  precipitated  for  a  few  months  of  each 
year  into  the  bewilderments  of  '  a  resort,'  the  unac- 
customednesses  of  which  serve  them  as  food  for  com 
ment  during  the  remainder  of  the  twelve  months. 
Their  dearest  customs  are  knocked  from  under  them  ; 
their  oldest  prejudices  are  shocked  out  of  them  ;  but 
the  never-to-be-resisted  passion  for  penny  turning 
has  seized  upon  them.  The  traditions  of  peaceful 
and  untempted  generations  of  the  past  are  forgotten  • 
they  retire  to  their  kitchens  and  garrets,  while  the 
heretofore  unviolated  parlors  and  chambers  of  their 
ancestors  are  given  over  to  the  enemy. 

"  And  such  parlors  !  and  such  chambers  !  who 
that  has  not  seen  them  can  be  initiated  through  un 
sympathetic  print  into  the  mysteries  of  those  great 
old  chimney-places,  the  prim  unconsciousness  of  tall 
mantel-shelves,  and  the  unaffected  simplicity  of  old 
mahogany,  that  does  not  know  it  as  a  priceless  boon ! 

"  Look  at  that  stately  old  house,  yonder,  with  its 
wainscoted  walls,  its  aristocratic  "stoop"  and  quaint 
stairway  !  Peer  into  some  secret  corner  if  you  can, 
you  '  Summer  Boarder,'  and  see  if  your  heart — for 
even  you  must  have  a  heart — does  not  stir  and  leap 
with  a  thrill  of  more  than  curiosity  at  the  relics  which 
lie  crumbling  away  piece-meal,  leaving,  of  all  their 
shredded  histories,  only  the  must  and  dust  of  forget- 
fulness. 

"  Here  is  an  old  gold  and  ivory  cane,  its  head  inlaid 
with  gems  ;  who  brought  that  costly  bit  from  over  the 


4io  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

sea?  and  what  long-buried  aristocrat  leaned  his  lace- 
frilled  hand  upon  it  through  a  proud  and  stately  old 
age? 

"And  there  is  a  porcelain  jar  with  its  handful  of 
ages-ago-dried  rose  leaves  : — Austin  Dobson  might 
have  written  a  rare  pot-pourri  upon  such  as  that. 

"  Yonder  are  fragments  of  rich  India  china  bespeak 
ing  forgotten  wealth ;  bits  of  obsolete  English  ware, 
telling  of  the  ancestors  who  "  came  over  "  from  the 
green  hills  and  rich  homes  of  the  Mother-land.  But 
there  are  only  occasional  surprises.  The  plainest  of 
Puritans  are  suggested  by  the  austerity  of  these 
"  salt-box  cottages  "  that  make  up  the  bulk  of  old 
Artist-haven,  betokening  more  the  rigors  of  self-denial, 
than  the  luxuries  of  wealth  in  those  early  settlers  who 
bought  their  land  from  the  Montauk  Indians  in  six- 
teen-hundred-and-I-forget. 

"  But  the  fragments  of  those  difficult  days,  whether 
of  Puritan  plainness  or  of  patrician  condescension, 
are  alike  dear  to  the  simple-minded  inhabitant. 

"Ah  !  blessed  Angel  of  the  Resurrection  !  what  canst 
thou  do  with  the  broken  hopes  and  forgotten  dreams 
of  which  came  these  shattered  facts? 

"The  Summer  Boarder  cannot  answer  that. 

"  As  for  the  change,  they  like  the  new  life  right  well, 
these  semi-sophisticated  people,  who  seem,  to  us  of  the 
busy  world,  to  have  lingered  out  of  another  time. 
Their  horizon  has  widened  until  they,  too,  have 
glimpses  of  a  society  to  them  as  vague,  hitherto,  as 
were  traditions  of  the  courts  of  the  Bourbons  to  their 
great-great-grandfathers. 

"  Their  field  of  interests  has  suddenly  become  so  en- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  4II 

larged,  that  they  no  longer  must  needs  confine  their 
familiar  gossip  to  the  limited  and  prosaic  recitals  of 
neighborhood  births  and  christenings,  marriages  and 
deaths,  with  an  occasional  treat-to-topic  of  a  vessel 
wrecked  upon  the  beach. 

"  Their  ambitions,  too,  have  expanded  out  of  all  pro 
portion  with  their  lowly  shingle  roofs,  and  new  ideas 
are  beginning  to  dawn  beneath  the  great  horse-chestnut 
trees.  The  picturesque  farmhouses,  for  so  many 
generations  en  naturel  and  guiltless  of  even  whitewash, 
are  here  and  there  beginning  to  glow  with  a  new 
adaptation  of  Pompeian  red  paint  upon  their  shingled 
sides ;  while  a  settlement  of  cottages,  in  the  Queen- 
Anne-gone-mad  style  of  to-day,  has  sprung  up  by  the 
sea. 

"  Probably  the  villagers  of  Artist-haven  had  never 
considered  their  proximity  to  the  ocean  in  any  other 
than  a  utilitarian  light.  Surf  bathing,  en  masse,  was 
a  remotely-conceived-of  vulgarism.  But  now,  those 
who  descend  to  see  it,  behold  their  beach  transformed 
each  morning  into  a  veritable  encampment  of  Philis 
tines  ;  while  town  vehicles,  and  elaborate  toilettes,  and 
all  the  embarras  de  richcssc,  have  put  to  open  shame 
their  rude  and  cheap  ways  and  means. 

"  The  butterflies  that  alight  upon  them  through  July 
and  August,  in  their  wide  quest  of  novelty  and  pleas 
ure,  leave  behind  them  with  every  flutter,  a  whole  trail 
of  dazzling  perplexities  and  glittering  allurements. 
Even  before  the  days  of  the  Tile  Club,  there  had  come 
a  few  of  such,  who  sowed  seeds  for  our  story.  But 
now,  the  flutter  is  universal — the  new  notions  are  far 
spread.  Whether  or  not  the  inhabitants  are  happier 


4i2  THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

for  their  new  gains,  and  the  losses  by  which  they  are 
purchased,  who  shall  say  ? 

"  It  is  but  the  inexorable  law  of  social  progress  and 
change,  which  sooner  or  later  is  coming  to  fulfil  itself 
in  every  remote  corner  of  earth.  If  it  is  better  or 
worse  for  them,  perhaps  even  themselves  cannot 
tell,  as  they  begin  that  struggle  after  the  never-to-be- 
attained  possibilities  of  society  life. 

"  After  all,  the  question  comes  which,  it  may  be,  the 
venerable  sleepers  under  the  lichens  had  to  settle  in 
their  own  less  worldly  way,  whether  it  is  wiser  for 
a  man  to  rest  contented  with  whatsoever  things  he 
hath  ;  or  whether  he  may,  without  detriment  to  his 
good  conscience,  press  forward  to  reach  after  the 
worldly  things  which  are  continually  beyond  his 
grasp. 

"  Had  they  found  the  answer  to  this  human  problem, 
and  carved  it, — the  sons  upon  the  fathers'  tomb-stones, 
— better  were  those  fallen  slabs  for  our  study  than  all 

the  wisdom  of  Egypt's  pyramids." 

******** 

So  it  will  be  seen  that  Leslie  Bracebridge  had  re 
ceived  his  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow.  As  in  his  first 
letter  to  the  press  he  had  not  referred  to  John 
Wallace,  so  in  this  last,  he  left  his  disappointed  quest 
untold.  He  wandered  about  disconsolately  before 
he  could  make  up  his  mind  to  hunt  up  the  widow 
Hatherton.  The  only  thing  he  had  to  show  for  his 
long  effort  was  the  drawing  he-  had  made  of  the 
Cammerden  coat-of-arms,  which  Mrs.  Hatherton  might 
identify  as  the  same  that  John  Wallace  had  worn 
upon  his  ring: — 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  4^ 

"  Only,  if  he  was  Lord  Percy,  that  was  a  Bishop's 
crest,"  he  sighed. 

Then  he  wandered  back  into  the  South-End  bury 
ing  ground,  and  sat  thinking  his  own  pensive 
thoughts.  Here  at  least  there  was  no  change.  The 
spot  was  cheerful  with  summer  sunlight,  and  barren 
of  even  the  suggestion  of  a  ghost  at  that  prosaic  hour 
of  the  forenoon,  but  he  recognized  all  the  sweet  and 
sympathetic  features  which  had  won  him  to  the 
spot. 

At  last  he  concluded  to  seek  the  one  creature  in 
the  place  who  had  probably  not  welcomed  the  sum 
mer-boarder  with  matter-of-fact  thrift.  Mrs.  Hather- 
ton  had  doubtless  withdrawn  in  scorn  from  even  a 
contemplation  of  new  departures. 

He  strolled  listlessly  up  the  village  street,  until  he 

came  to What  ?  The  great  chestnuts  that  had 

formerly  sheltered  the  home  of  the  Castlewoods, 
without  a  doubt.  But  the  Homestead  was  no  longer 
there.  .Or  rather,  its  shell  might  have  been  there; 
but  it  was  so  bedaubed  with  paint,  so  bedizened  with 
ornamentation  that  the  Poet  stood  aghast. 

"  Who  would  have  believed  that  such  a  fine  sort  of 
woman  could  condescend  to  truckle  to  fool  notions  ! " 
he  exclaimed  angrily,  and  gave  the  knocker  a  sound 
ing  rap. 

"  It's  a  wonder  she  hasn't  a  front  door-bell, "  he  re 
marked  contemptuously  :  "  only  that  would  not  be 
aesthetic.  To  think  of  such  a  senseless  craze  having 

invaded  this  out-of-the  world  " Bracebridge 

paused  in  the  midst  of  his  mental  harangue  ;  for  the 
door  was  flung  open  with  a  flourish  by  a  jaunty  color- 


4I4  Th'E  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE. 

ed  servant  with  "  New  York  style  "  stamped  all  over 
his  smart  livery. 

"  Beg  yo'  pardon,  sir,"  he  said  airily,  when  the  vis 
itor  mentioned  the  widow's  name. 

"  Mrs.  Hatherton,"  repeated  Bracebridge  tartly. 

"  No  sir  ;  she  don't  live  here,  sir.  Mrs.  Vander- 
Voort  occupies  this  house  for  the  summer." 

And  Leslie  Bracebridge  found  himself  bewildered 
upon  the  sidewalk. 

"  I  have  changed  the  name  of  my  prospective 
novel,"  he  muttered  cynically :  "  It  shall  be  called 
'  A  Book  of  Disillusions.'  '  TJie  Lady  Correspondent 
of  John  Wallace '  refused  to  become  my  heroine,  and 
even  the  man's  one  surety  has  deserted  me.  Rest- 
Hampton  itself  is  a  myth." 

Here  a  troop  of  over-dressed  little  girls  flaunted  by 
with  their  miniature  babies  and  toy  perambulators. 
They  were  decked  out,  like  their  probable  mammas, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  demi-monde. 

Out  in  the  street  a  flashy  village  cart  dashed  past, 
driven  by  a  bold  girl  with  black  eyes.  A  pattern  lackey 
sat  motionless,  face  outward,  behind,  and  a  great  jin 
gle  of  chains  went  with  the  heavily  caparisoned  horse. 
There  was  a  shoddy  vulgarity  in  every  jingle. 

While  the  Poet  stood  musing,  the  familiar  figure 
of  a  villager  came  stalking  along.  It  was  Obadiah 
Potts,  now  grown  wrinkled  and  white,  but  still  upright 
and  severe  in  his  demeanor. 

In  answer  to  the  young  man's  polite  inquiry  re 
specting  the  whereabouts  of  the  widow,  Mr.  Potts 
answered  stiffly  : 

"  She's  gone  to  England,  with  her  son,  to  live.  She 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  415 

rented  the  old  house  last  Fall  to  some  fashionable 
people  from  New  York.  They've  made  a  fine  place 
of  it  already." 

"  Et  tit  Brute?  thought  Bracebridge  with  a  sigh. 
Even  this  austere  looking  native  had  gone  over  to 
the  enemy.  Clearly,  the  inhabitants  did  not  echo 
the  wail  that  had  gone  up  from  his  poet's  pen. 

"  I  wonder  how  the  artists  feel,"  he  murmured: 

And  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  as  yet 
had  no  glimpse  of  those  white  umbrellas  clotted  upon 
the  landscape.  Very  likely  the  artists  had  migrated 
from  the  place  in  a  body. 

Obadiah  Potts  was  saying  something  boastful  of 
the  popularity  "  our  town"  had  attained,  which  Brace- 
bridge  did  not  catch,  until  he  was  roused  from  his 
revery  by  an  exclamation  of  pride  and  satisfaction  : 

"  Look  there  now  !     Airit  that  purty  ?  " 

The  young  man  turned  and  beheld  a  high  drag, 
drawn  tandem,  and  filled  with  ladies,  coming  along 
at  a  flying  pace. 

"  I  tell  you,  sir,  we  didn't  used  to  see  such  sights, 
here-abouts.  It'll  be  the  making  of  Rest-Hamp 
ton." 

The  great  chestnuts  rustled  their  dark  green  shad 
ows  ;  the  old  elms,  just  beyond,  bent  and  swayed 
their  long  arms  in  a  soft  sea-wind  that  stole  across 
the  fields  and  flats  ;  while  the  scent  of  ripening  fruit 
came  coaxingly  from  the  deep-hearted  retirement  of 
the  ancient  orchard.  Even  a  sunflower  nodded  fa 
miliarly  over  the  garden  wall,  and  a  tall  lily  bent  its 
head  graciously  beneath.  In  vain  nature  exerted  her 
sweetest  influences.  The  Poet  felt  that  all  was  out 


4 1 6  THE  SHADO  W  OF  JOHN  IV A  LLA  CE. 

of  harmony,  and  his  heart  was  unresponsive  to  the 
old  sweet  strain. 

"  Pshaw,"  he  cried  angrily,  making  his  way  to  the 
hotel  to  take  the  next  stage  that  would  carry  him 
from  the  disenchanted  village,  "  I  don't  believe  that 
there  is  any  mystery  :  and  what  is  more,  I  don't  believe 
there  ever  was  such  an  ideal  place  as  '  Artist-haven.'  " 

Later,  as  he  sat  trifling  with  the  mid-day  dinner 
offered  him,  he  soliloquized  this  wise  : 

"  I  have  made  a  silly  attempt  to  dramatize  the  life 
of  a  man  whose  heroism  was  above  my  comprehen 
sion.  I  had  better  have  taken  the  advice  of  that 
handsome  woman,  the  widow  (who,  by  the  way,  I 
absolve  from  the  curse  I  put  upon  her  when  I  thought 
she  had  spoiled  her  house.)  I  had  better  have 
acknowledged  the  proportions  of  the  man  to  be 
beyond  my  scope,  than  have  got  up  all  the  parapher 
nalia  for  a  tragedy, — and  then  failed  to  grasp  my 
hero. 

"  It  was  like  playing  with  gods  and  angels  ;  only 
the  Greek  poets  could  do  that, — and  classic  old 
Milton.  The  Titanic  outlines  of  my  psychological 
researches  only  show  up  the  puny  weakness  of  my 
results.  John  Wallace,  standing  alone  in  his  power 
and  his  gentleness,  with  his  motives  unknown,  and 
his  mystery  unsolved,  is  a  grander  character  than  any 
mock  hero  I  could  produce,  with  all  my  side-lights 
and  stage  properties.  I  shall  now  take  to  writing 
epics  ;  or,  at  least,  my  coming  romance  shall  not  aim 
to  be  a  metaphysical  study." 

And  taking  out  "The  Ring  and  the  Book,"  which 
had  borne  him  the  silent  company  of  its  comment, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  JOHN  WALLACE.  417 

he   opened   it   at   random  and    read   these  words  of 
startling  significance . 

"  And  so  an  end  of  all  i'  the  story.     Strain 
Never  so  much  my  eyes,  I  miss  the  mark. 

Learn  one  lesson  hence 

Of  many  which  whatever  lives  should  teach; 
This  lessson,  that  our  human  speech  is  naught, 
Our  human  testimony  false,  our  fame 
And  human  estimation,  words  and  wind." 


AFTER-CHORD. 

"  But  if  you  rather  be  disposed  to  sec 
In  the  result  of  the  long  trial  here, — 
This  dealing  doom  to  guilt,  and  doling  praise 
To  innoccncy, — any  proof  that  truth 
JITay  look  for  vindication  from  the  world, 
Mucli  will  you  have  misread  the  signs,  I  say. 
God,  who  seems  acquiescent  in  the  main 
WitJi  those  who  add  '  S0  will  He  ever  sleep  ' — 
Flutters  their foolishness  from  time  to  time, 
Puts  forth  His  right  Jiand  recognizably  ; 
Rvcn  as — to  fools  who  deem  He  needs  must  right 
Wrong  on  the  instant,  as  if  earth  were  heaven, 
He  wakes  remonstrance — ' Passive,  Lord,  how  long?' 

— THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK. 


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